


a many splendored thing

by elinadsy



Category: Artemis Fowl - Eoin Colfer
Genre: Artemis is 3 years younger than Holly, Ballet AU, Drug Addiction, F/F, F/M, Friends to Enemies to Lovers, Gen, Human AU, M/M, Other, POC Holly, POC No.1, POC Qwan, POC Qweffor, Sexual Content, and yknow what lets chuck a tag for, in there as well lmao, long fic, pride and prejudice style AU, references to racism but it's not the focus of this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2019-09-05 00:18:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 37,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16799938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elinadsy/pseuds/elinadsy
Summary: “I was under the impression that we were on a date,” Holly sneers.“So was I,” Artemis says icily. “But clearly you would never be interested in a coward such as myself, Ms. Short, so forgive me for troubling you. I wish you the best of luck with the upcoming season.”“Fuck you, Fowl,” Holly spits, and leaves him standing there.-When a vicious review of the New York City Ballet's last season goes viral, Holly does her best to put it behind her; she has a rising career as a dancer to focus on, and if she stops for every internet troll with a large vocabulary, she'll never get anywhere.Naturally, of course, fate has other plans. It's a small world, after all.





	1. Act One

**Author's Note:**

> See the notes at the end for explanations of the various ballet terms. Full disclaimer: I am not a ballet dancer and am making use of good old Google for this fic, so apologies for any mistakes!

Juliet’s told her a thousand times to avoid this dark, dank place. Maybe one day she’ll _listen_. But after a long day of unpacking boxes of clothes and arranging knick knacks, as Holly wraps her fingers around her first cup of coffee for the day, she finds herself back in the New York Times’ comments section once again.

Holly’s a professional ballet dancer. She’s long past the eager consumption of reviews, thirsty for affirmation of her skills _._ But it’s hard after a full season of performances to _not_ want to see what the people think. Especially when it’s _nice._

 _Colfer278:_ _Another splendid performance. I especially loved the Sugar Plum Fairy’s dancer; she was, dare I say, en pointe? Hahahaha._

The pun’s a standard ballet pun, sure, but it never fails to make her grin a little. She keeps reading, taking a sip of her coffee every so often. Way too bitter; Juliet makes it much better. Holly hopes like hell she doesn’t forget her Nescafe machine tomorrow.

_Eliza_fante: Nutcracker, again? Great performance but I’d love to see some more modern stuff_

_Brightly-singing-angel: really really REALLY great show jksdskd!!!! I’ve never seen such an Amazinf performance omg, can’t wait for the next seasen!!!!_ _  
_ _Internetsir83: A let down from start to finish. The Sugar Plum’s Allégro? More like Allégross. It’s only thanks to Miss Koboi that the performance is halfway watchable._

At this, she rolls her eyes. Holly bets the anonymous troll wouldn’t know _allégro_ from an _assemblé_ , and _Miss_ Koboi? Opal, a _miss_? It’s obvious this guy has no fucking clue.

(Still, she resolves to go over it with No. 1 when she sees him next. If she’s gotten sloppy in the week long break she’s indulging herself in, he’ll make sure she knows it.)

_Colfer278: @Internetsir83, I have to disagree! I found her an incredible dancer._

_Internetsir83: Disagree all you want, you but you’re wrong, Mr. Colfer278. Have a read of this article, the author breaks down the numerous issues_ perfectly _._

Despite Holly’s distaste is growing for this dumbass, she clicks the attached URL, ready to have a laugh at the author’s supposed _knowledge_ . She put her heart and soul and no insignificant amount of blisters into their performance of _The Nutcracker_ , and she _knows_ she was exceptional. She has no _choice_ but to be exceptional. Being the only black female soloist in the NYCB isn’t an easy position to be in. To her surprise, the article opens to a guest review that’s also in the NY Times website. Only published last night, it hasn’t shown up in the main listing yet.

Battu _down the hatches_ , it’s titled, and Holly can feel her eyes become an angry sort of squint preemptively as she reads further, setting her coffee down.

The article is meticulously, arrogantly, _brutally_ savage. The author starts with a cutting disparagement of the source material, and then quickly leads into a cool dissection of the performance itself. They pull apart _everything_ ; the costumes, the set design (poor Foaly), the venue, the orchestra, the advertisement, and- of course- the dancers.

Thankfully (whatever Internetsir83 thinks) even Opal is not exempt from the writer. They lambast the choreography (Holly is furious on Qwan’s behalf) and then roast the ever loving shit of all the dancers. It’s… sociopathic. They go into great detail about every individual, miniscule fault; Trouble’s barely perceptible limp from a foot injury halfway through the season, Opal’s barely too short _ballon_ in the second act (she’s a fantastic dancer however painful she may be, but her endurance is a fault she’s obsessively working on), Chix forgetting _fifth position en bas_ that _one_ time-

She’s infuriated by the inhuman coldness of this review, by the way the author so clearly takes an delight in each rendered insult. Are they right? Yes. But these are things that the vast majority of the audience would have never seen, things that even their regular attendees would find difficult to notice with a front row seat and binoculars. It’s so dismissive and condescending of them, of how hard they work, of how proud they all were at the end of the season.

So naturally, by the time she comes to the section wherein he rips the Sugar Plum Fairy to shreds, she’s simmering in her own private Anger Stew, as Juliet calls it.

_Having thus laid the pitiful bones of this opening night performance bare, perhaps you assume I have left the saving grace of the performance for last. The Sugar Plum fairy is, whatever your common ballet aficionado may believe, the true female principle of the show,_ the author writes. _So naturally, I was expecting the Sugar Plum Fairy to lift the performance up out of the murky depths to which it had sunk. Unfortunately, I was disappointed. Between the_ entrechat cinq _and a woefully clumsy_ coupé _at the climactic moment, the Sugar Plum Fairy ultimately lets down the production, rather than redeems it. Clearly one of the older dancers, I’d recommend she graciously steps down before she falls on her face, and take up a career more suited to her interests. One has to wonder if Root is searching to put the corps in corpse after seeing the continued employment of a dancer well past their prime. I can only pray that he trims what little fat is left on these bedraggled masses and brings an original and engaging performance next season._

Holly stares at the final full stop for a minute, so angry she wants to throw something, and once she’s taken a few deep breaths, she closes her eyes, opens them.

Who- who does this asshole think they _are_? Holly scrolls back up to the top of the article, past all five thousand fucking words of this bullshit.

A.Fowl. Not a critic she recognises. The article’s been shared- Jesus _Christ_ , it’s been shared _over thirteen thousand times_.

God _damnit_ , of all the ballet reviews to go viral. And what kind of- just-

Holly makes an angry noise, slams the laptop shut, and then she goes and makes another cup of coffee, because her first one has gone cold.

Put the corps in corpse. What an _asshole_.

Holly spends the rest of the day angry. She goes for an angry swim; she goes for an angry jog; she makes an angry sandwich. She angrily refuses to open her laptop and read the article again.

_i told you not to read the comments section_ , Juliet texts her. _i tell u this at the end of every season…_

 _i know, i know,_ Holly replies. _also i took the bedroom with the window_

_are you!! Fucking!! Kidding me!!_

_look,_ Holly grins, _not my fault ur not getting back til tomorrow_

_i can not believe u have disrespected me like this.._

She’s been looking forward to this for a while, now. It’s only thanks to Juliet’s mysterious extra income that Holly comes to be in a shockingly nice and affordable two bedroom flat a mere fifteen minutes from their usual practice studio by bus, with a nice view of the park nearby. A lucky find, one they happened across two days before the end of the season (and three days before Juliet flew back to Ireland to visit her family). Cute, and practical, thick walls and thick windows and a wooden floor- perfect for dance practice.

It’s been ages since Holly’s lived with someone, let alone someone she _likes_ . She’s really looking forward to it. Juliet’s only a year or so younger than her; they might as well be sisters after half a decade of dancing together. So their conversation leaves her feeling much better. Stupid A.Fowl. A fowl indeed. Foul. _Asshole_.

_What do_ they _know_ , Holly thinks, beginning to fume again until her phone rings.

“Yeah?”

“ _You seen this fucking article?”_ Nathan “Trouble” Kelp says. After a decade of living in New York, his Southern accent is mostly gone, but whenever he gets angry, it stirs up. Right now, he’s twanging up a banjo.

“The one by A.Fowl?”

“ _Yeah,”_ he says. “ _My mom just sent it to me- which is just real considerate, might I add.”_

“Don’t get me started,” Holly says. “I’ve been in a shitty mood all day.”

“ _I’m a professional dancer,_ ” Trouble says. “ _I’ve seen my fair share of bad reviews. But this is… something else. Have you shown Root?”_

“Do I look like an idiot?”

“ _Fair call.”_

“Have you shown Jon?”

“ _Yeah, like Grub could handle this. He’d collapse like a goddamn folding chair.”_

Holly’s spirits are cheered immensely. Trouble and her came up through the NYCB corps together, and they get along very well. If she gets along with Juliet because she’s like a sister, Holly gets along with Trouble because he’s like the cousin who should have been a brother.

“ _You know, though_ ,” Trouble continues, “ _It was damn nice to see Opal getting taken down a fucking peg.”_

Holly laughs. “What was it it said, about her eyes-”

“ _Ms. Koboi,”_ Trouble reads in a mock posh accent, “ _Gracing us once again with a marvellous fish dive that was so dedicated to the phrase that the poor_ danseur _partnered with her looked as if he_ was _indeed holding a fish, so badly did her eyes bulge and so scaley were her elbows-”_

Holly snorts, slapping the table. “You sent her that, right?”

“ _What else was I meant to do? Let her continue her life on that pedestal she likes to shit on us from?”_

Holly laughs again, splashing her coffee a little; as she wipes it off the table, Trouble changes tack.

“ _You free for lunch tomorrow? Chix and I were going to get donuts while Root can’t yell at us about our dietary choices.”_

Holly chews at her cheek. “Another time. Juliet’s moving in tomorrow, so I’m gonna stick around and do the good housemate thing, move boxes, dust, all that shit.”

“ _Oh, yeah. Bet she was chomping at the bit to get out of that fucking apartment.”_

“Can you blame her?”

 _“Yeah, I’d rather pull out my own toenails than share a bathroom with Opal,”_ he says darkly. “ _Alright, I’m gonna head to the gym, chat later.”_

“Later,” Holly says, and hangs up; between Juliet moving in and Trouble’s commiseration, she’s in a thoroughly better mood, and she falls asleep to the sound of the city, callused feet tangled in her quilt.

-

“Holly!” Juliet yells, and Holly is still rubbing the sleep from her eyes as the other woman flings herself over the threshold and into Holly’s arms.

“Juliet,” Holly grumbles, blearily hugging her back. “Come on, it’s only nine-”

“You _know_ I’m a morning person,” Juliet informs her, and immediately sets to opening all the curtains and windows. “Oh, I’m so glad we found this place, I forgot how cute it was!”

“Yeah, it’s real charming,” Holly says, still adjusting to the brightness streaming through the windows. “Did you end up getting the delivery people?”

As she says this, an impossibly huge man in an impeccable suit walks in.

“In a manner of speaking,” Juliet says brightly. “Oh, Dom, can you bring up the bed first?”

“I really do wish you had told me the measurements of the rooms,” the man grumbles, carefully taking off his suit jacket. “Do you mind if I put this over this… chair?”

He’s addressing _her_ , Holly realises, and he’s likely paused because the apartment is painfully threadbare; a single chair is all Holly had to contribute to the space.

(Her studio apartment was _tiny_ , and it had one of those wall-mattress things. She had to actually _buy_ a bed before moving in, which was a novel and expensive experience.)

“Uh, go ahead,” Holly says, and then watches him fold up his shirt sleeves over absolutely enormous forearms.

“Call me Butler,” he says gravely. “Are you Ms. Short, then?”

“Um. Yeah, hi.”

He offers his hand, and she takes it; his hand is roughly the size of a dinner plate, if a dinner plate was made of muscle. His face, however, looks familiar.

“Pleasure to meet you,” he says, and immediately confirms her suspicions: “I’m Juliet’s brother.”

“Do you need help with her bed?” Holly offers.

“No,” he says, as if being able to carry a double bed up several flights of stairs is as easy as lifting a pillow. “But she has a _lot_ of boxes.”

“Well, let’s get to it,” Holly says, and she follows the big man down the stairs. He’s very quiet. Efficient is the word that comes to mind when Holly looks at Butler; very straightforward, very professional.

Juliet’s always been very private about her family. Holly’s always avoided the topic out of respect, so finding out her best friend has a brother and seeing all six foot two inches of him in the flesh in the same day is, well, _weird._

“Juliet never said she had a brother,” she says as they come into the lift.

“I’m a very private person,” Butler replies. “It’s necessary in my line of work.”

“Oh. What do you do?”

Butler glances at her, his expression deadly. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

Holly blinks.

“A joke,” he says, and chuckles to himself, but Holly finds out that’s the extent of his humor; he spends the rest of the day silently assisting them. It’s the evening by the time they’re done; the apartment looks much warmer, a couch and picture frames and color and lamps and it’s really _nice_ , an actual _home_.

Butler is finishing putting together a coffee table when his phone rings; he abruptly stands up, to answer it.

“Yes? Yes. I’ll be there shortly. No. Yes.”

Then he hangs up.

“Glad to see he hasn’t changed,” Juliet comments from her place at the kitchen counter where she’s taking newspaper off of glasses. “Does he send his love?”

“What do you think?” Butler says, and Juliet laughs. “My apologies, but I have to leave.”

“I think we’ll manage,” Holly replies.

“Good to hear. A pleasure to meet you, Holly.”

“Thanks again, Dom,” Juliet says, hopping off her seat to give him a hug and see him out. The moment the door closes, Holly raises her arms up in wild gesticulation.

“You have a _brother!”_ Holly exclaims.

“Yeah,” Juliet says, returning to her newspaper pile. “What about him?”

“Is he a spy? He looks like a spy.”

Juliet snorts. “No, he’s just a bodyguard.”

“For the president?” Holly asks.

Juliet snorts again. “God, I wish. That’d be _way_ cooler.”

“Oh, come _on,_ who then _?”_

Juliet shrugs, setting aside the final wine glass. “Our family have always traditionally been bodyguards for this rich family in Ireland. Like, to the extent that it’s a joke in bodyguard circles that the word _butler_ comes from our surname. Anyway, he’s like… the _ultimate_ bodyguard. Spent most of his life training for it at this batshit crazy academy in Japan.”

Holly squints at her. “Wait, _what?”_

Juliet shrugs again. “You asked. I’m not gonna lie about it. Besides,” she continues, setting to unpacking the dishes and looking mildly embarrassed, “You’ll probably meet Arty at some point… and then I’d have to explain in _front_ of him… and then he’d give you the fucking unabridged history of our family’s _complex_ and _rich_ _symbiotic relationship_ , and honestly, he scared off my friends in high school with that shit.”

“Arty?”

“Dom’s charge. The one he guards. Or, _did_ guard? I think Angeline just wanted Dom with him for his travels since Arty Senior got kidnapped-”

“Got _kidnapped?”_

 _“_ Yeah, but he’s fine now, don’t worry. Anyway, Butler borderline raised Arty, and technically Arty fired him when he was sixteen but he’s got twin brothers that are frankly a fucking _handful_ -”

“His father got _kidnapped?_ By _who?”_

Juliet waves a hand dismissively. “You don’t want to hear about that-”

“I beg to _differ._ ”

“It was just the Russian mafia, small time fry, honestly-”

“ _Juliet-”_

“Anyway, yeah, that’s Dom! Tall, dark and ready to knock someone out. But raising a sociopath would probably do that to anyone, I think, no matter how much special training you have-”

“ _Sociopath?”_

“Sociopath’s a strong word,” Juliet says thoughtfully. “But he _did_ almost get arrested for deliberately crashing the Allied Irish Bank’s online banking system for a laugh-”

_“What?”_

“And he can be really rude sometimes. Like, _savagely_ rude. But having an IQ of two hundred and seventy three a mature twelve year old does _not_ make, and he’s quite classy now, even if I still want to give him a noogie sometimes-”

Juliet looks up and finally sees Holly, who is staring at her.

“What?”

“Are you _serious?”_ Holly says, and then laughs. “What- wait, so if you come from a family of bodyguards, why aren’t _you_ a bodyguard? ”

“Oh, if Arty’s family doesn’t want our services, usually we just go to the guy willing to pay the best wage. Or in my case, because nothing could appeal to me less as a four year old, I convinced Dom to let me go have a normal upbringing.” She fidgets with a dishtowel. “He sends me part of his paycheck, which is how I can afford to pay as much as I am for this place, which is nice and embarrassing _.”_

“Jesus _Christ_.”

“This is why I don’t talk about my family,” Juliet says darkly. “Trust me, if it were the president Dom was employed by, I’d be a lot less private about it.”

“Is this Arty guy really that bad?” Holly asks.

“Mm,” Juliet says, going to their very nice new fridge and taking out a bottle of beer. “He’s… a lot. Let’s put it that way.”

-

Artemis Fowl spends his first night in New York like he does in most cities; at the most expensive restaurant he can find. He visited _Per Se_ the last terrible time he decided to come to this godforsaken city, and frankly, it was a little disappointing. This evening, its _Masa_ that he’s deigned to grace with his presence (and his wallet).

Masa himself is there tonight at his eponymous restaurant; quick to talk and quicker to serve, which Artemis appreciates. He takes one of the restaurant’s twenty six seats, one by the window and as he has a glass of passable and overpriced sauvignon blanc, he checks his emails.

His spam folder is full, of course. He regrets publishing that review more than ever in light of how popular it’s become.

(Artemis had actually forgotten about it until the NY Times sent him a formal notification of its publishing. He wrote the damned thing after visiting _Per Se_ in a terrible cool anger, sent it to the NY Times editors and had several too many glasses of that oaked cabernet sauvignon Minerva so liked to _brag_ about.)

Now every man and their godforsaken little yappy dog are sharing and commenting and tweeting it. He rather doubts any of them actually agree with the review; far more likely the sheer rudeness of it is what has garnered so much attention. And every single fucking notification is, embarrassingly, going to the email address he uses for reviews. He’s had to keep his phone on silent, rather than vibrate. Artemis was only twenty one when he wrote it, for goodness sake. He’s twenty two now and _vastly_ more improved as an individual, and frankly, he doesn’t appreciate being reminded of his momentary lapse in maturity.

Masa places his first dish in front of him, an exquisite slice of raw salmon with kumquat zest. Artemis takes the perfectly weighed chopsticks up from their setting and absently eats, still going through his inbox. Several from Myles about his undergraduate chemistry course, three from Beckett (all of which consist of plans for a frankly dangerous looking robot), approximately thirty from various academic journals…

And one from his mother. Artemis opens that one first.

_Dearest Arty,_ she writes. _A dear friend of mine from New York’s ballet appreciation society has just sent your recent review to me. I must say, I’m a little disappointed in you-_

Artemis sits back in his chair, locks his phone, runs a hand down his face. He already feels ashamed _enough_ , especially when frankly, the performance wasn’t that bad at all. Far from the worst rendition of _The Nutcracker_ he’s been subjected to. Perhaps he should write a retraction? Of course, he doubts the NY Times would publish _that_ . No one enjoys reading a _nice_ review, after all-

A very familiar head of blond curls catches his eye, and he absolutely does _not_ sink in his seat as Minerva Paradizo walks into the restaurant, accompanied by one Opal Koboi.

Excellent. Wonderful. _Fantastic._

Artemis turns his head out to the window, praying that Minerva has matured somewhat in the five months since they broke up and will tactfully ignore him.

“Well, if it isn’t Artemis Fowl.”

Bold of him to expect anything else, he supposes, and he allows himself the luxury of a slow blink to pull his patience together.

“Minerva,” Artemis says with as much warmth as he can muster. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“You’re looking well,” she replies, taking off her kitsch autumn coat and passing it to the _maître d′_ who hastens to go hang it up. “Why, the bags under your eyes look like they might be _Gucci_ , for once.”

It physically _pains_ him not to respond to such a weak jab, but it’s evident such a decision would end in tears.

(Hers, of course. Artemis has cried exactly once and he plans to save round two for a very special occasion.)

He instead gives her a dip of his head. “A good skincare routine and adequate sleep does wonders.”

Opal, meanwhile, is eyeing him like a housewife might eye a cockroach behind the fridge.

“ _This_ is Artemis Fowl?” Opal says to Minerva. “I thought you said he was _pretty_ . And look at _his_ eyes, the nerve to call _mine_ boggling-”

Artemis finds it hard to repress a grin at that. Perhaps the article wasn’t so regrettable after all. And he wasn’t _wrong._ Opal’s eyes are enormous and she always has the faint air of someone who shouldn’t be allowed near sharp objects. He’ll take heterochromia over looking like a literal manic pixie girl any day of the week.

“I know, sweetheart, he’s simply awful,” Minerva says. “You’re definitely an upgrade.”

“I’m not an upgrade,” Opal snaps. “I’m the Ferrari to his Honda Civic. He’s not even in the same _league_ as me.”

Artemis raises an eyebrow _very_ pointedly as he slowly looks from Opal’s shoes (last season’s Louboutin heels, quarter size too small) all the way up to her hair (dry, frankly, and in need of a good styling). He, meanwhile, is of course wearing a hand tailored evening suit that likely costs more than Opal’s entire apartment, and his hair is impeccable, thanks to Butler’s Ko-mandated barber training.

Opal’s nostrils flare. It’s very unattractive.

“Well, ladies,” he says, “I’m afraid I must be getting back to my meal-”

“Oh, we’re only _joking_ , Arty,” Opal says poisonously, and Artemis clenches his jaw at the nickname. “Let’s all sit together. Wouldn’t that be marvellous?”

Minerva, to her credit, does look uncomfortable with this extravagant rudeness. “There’s a much better view at that table over there Opal, why don’t we sit there instead?”

“Oh, but I’d _love_ to discuss Arty’s recent op-ed,” Opal replies, and the daggers she looks at Artemis could pin him to the chair he’s sitting in. “Since he considers himself such an expert with those skinny twig legs of his-”

Luckily, the _maître d′_ is to the rescue; returning from the coat rack, he comes to seat the two woman somewhere behind him. Artemis is left with a feeling comparable with the relief of escaping a brush with death.

This is absolutely unacceptable, he can _not_ continue this meal with his ex-girlfriend and her new, infinitely _worse_ girlfriend in the same restaurant. The old Artemis Fowl would have bribed the chef an exorbitant amount of money to ruin Minerva and Opal’s food. The mature Artemis Fowl would rather just be the bigger man and graciously go enjoy his dinner somewhere else.

So he calls the _maître d′_ back over, informs him of the change in plans, and then he calls Butler.

“Butler,” he says immediately once his ex-bodyguard picks up. “Are you almost finished assisting Juliet? I’ve run into Ms. Paradizo and I’m in need of an _extremely_ hasty extraction...”

Butler of course agrees, and then Artemis pulls on his coat, and leaves- though not before magnanimously paying for Minerva and Opal’s meals _and_ sending them a bottle of the most expensive _sake_ in the restaurant.

Killing with kindness, he’s discovered, is a _very_ satisfying form of warfare, and no one can ever accuse him of being immature for it.

“I’ve never been happier to see your shaven skull, old friend,” Artemis says the moment he sits in their rental car- a Tesla Model X. It will have to do.

“Minerva hasn’t gotten over the break up, I take it?” Butler asks. A perfunctory question, but Artemis would be lying if he doesn’t appreciate the opportunity to air his grievances.

“Not only has she _not_ gotten over it,” Artemis comments, “But she seems marvellously intent on not even attempting to make the climb. She’s invited the delightfully snake-like Opal Koboi to hold vigil with her, actually. If I drop dead within the next twenty four hours, I advise you to go to Ms. Koboi’s apartment and search for voodoo dolls or any suspicious chalk summoning circles.”

“That bad?”

Artemis massages his temples. “While I understand she is quite within her rights to still be upset, her behaviour was _extraordinarily_ rude. And to be dating Ms. Koboi? I’m frankly astonished Gaspard would allow her near such a vile woman.”

“Juliet’s told me all about Ms. Koboi,” Butler says, turning onto Sixth Avenue in order to park in the Four Seasons’ car park. A short drive, but Artemis doesn’t particularly feel like being mugged. “She has quite a reputation even amongst the Corps themselves.”

“Ms. Koboi’s reputation precedes her,” Artemis mutters. “Not unlike a bad smell.”

Butler parks the car, and they take the lift up to the Ty Warner Penthouse Suite.

“Not to mention,” Artemis continues, “She called my legs _skinny_ , Butler. _Skinny_.”

Butler does not comment.

“After all the work I’ve been putting in!”  
Again, Butler does not comment.

“I have muscle definition, Butler! _Definition!”_

Still no response forthcoming, and Artemis raises his brows.

“Butler, if I didn’t know better, I’d say your silence is that of tactful disagreement kind, rather than supportive.”

“It’s the neutral kind,” Butler says mildly, and Artemis huffs. “In any case, as disappointing as Minerva’s immaturity is, I think it rather supports your decision to end the relationship.”

“I agree,” Artemis says, pouring himself a glass of shiraz from the wine fridge. “Would you order something to the room? I barely made it through my entree.”

Butler goes to peruse the menu and Artemis removes his shoes before taking a seat in the armchair overlooking Central Park.

He really detests New York. It’s the amalgamation of everything he dislikes in a city, the smell and the rush and the cheerlessness. Also the architecture. The arts scene is its one redeeming factor, despite his qualms. Of all the cities for Juliet to choose for her career, she picked the best one.

“How is my dear foster-sister?” he asks without turning back to Butler.

“Excited,” Butler says. “How do you feel about _foie-gras_?”

“Ambivalent,” Artemis sighs. “Her apartment is sufficiently secure, I take it?”

“Of course. I had a friend of mine examine the premises before they even signed the lease. How about a charcuterie board?”

“Mm. Yes, that will do.” Artemis sips his glass. “They, plural? I thought she made the very wise decision to leave Ms. Koboi in the squalor they were living in.”

“She’s moved in with Holly Short,” Butler says.

“The one who played the Sugar Plum Fairy, I believe,” Artemis muses, a little guiltily. He had quite specifically torn her performance to shreds, from memory.

“Very nice girl,” Butler says, unaware of Artemis’s discomfort. “I think her and Juliet will work very well together.”

“Yes,” Artemis says, if only because he doesn’t know what to say. Butler orders the food, and he stares out the window. He had very graciously avoided mentioning Juliet in the review, but Artemis is well aware she won’t look kindly on him for his treatment of her friends and fellow performers.

( _Damned fool,_ he thinks to himself.)

“So,” Butler says, coming to sit in the opposite chair. (It creaks ominously, and now it is Artemis whose silence is neutral). “What are your plans while we’re here, Artemis? It’s unlike you to not have an itinerary a month in advance.”

To be fair, Artemis’s accompaniment of Butler had been a rather last minute decision. His stint as a guest lecturer at Harvard’s neuroscience department had concluded, and the twins were being astonishingly painful (as tweens are wont to do, he supposes, but Artemis only ever robbed banks in order to accumulate funds to rescue his father from the Russian mafia, he would _never_ stoop to their level).

Artemis doesn’t really have… _friends_ . He has peers, he has colleagues, but Minerva was the first friend he ever had. And while he doesn’t regret ending their relationship, he’s… lonely. Juliet had been refreshingly funny and warm at their family dinner and notably _didn’t_ put a whoopee cushion on his seat. He’s always gotten along well with her, but they aren’t especially close, and Artemis was surprised to find he’d like to change that. So, New York, New York.

“Well,” Artemis says. “Obviously a trip to the Metropolitan is in order.” A thought occurs to him. “Is there anything _you’d_ like to do, Butler?”

A knock at the door interrupts before Butler can reply, and his manservant gets up to let the room service in. Once the charcuterie board is in front of them and Butler deems it to be lacking in any artfully hidden poisons, they tuck in.

“It would be nice to see a musical at Broadway,” Butler admits almost twenty minutes later, and Artemis nearly chokes on his cheese.

“Do you- have a particular one in mind?” Artemis manages to ask through watering eyes. “And if you say _Hamilton_ , I confess I might be so inclined, even if Mr. Lin-Manuel has since left the cast.”

“I was thinking more of a classic,” Butler says. “How about _My Fair Lady_?”

-

Even though it’s meant to be their holiday, Holly only allowed herself the weekend to relax; now that Juliet is back, and the apartment is settled, it’s straight back to work. At nine thirty, she pulls a beanie over her close cropped hair, shrugs on her favourite jacket, and takes the bus to their dedicated training studios.

Holly is twenty five years old, now. She doesn’t have a lot of time left in her career as a dancer; two more years if she’s lucky. And she _still_ hasn’t gotten the principal role- that honor has exclusively been bestowed on Opal the last few seasons.

It’s hard not to take that personally when you’re the only female dancer at the same level that hasn’t been principal yet. And it’s _especially_ hard not to take it personally when all the other female dancers are white, and Holly is decidedly _not_.

(Is it because of how she fucked up her first solo so badly? That season is one that’ll forever be a stain on her career, and she’s never been a fan of _Cinderella_ since.)

Besides, Holly trains _just_ as hard as Opal, _harder_ , even, because while Opal is out sniffing cocaine and being absolutely awful to waiters on her off nights, Holly is doing her stretches and refusing to order a pizza because everything counts now, she has so little time _left_ , melting away like the ice in her post-dance foot bucket.

So that’s why Holly is here, in the studio, lacing up her shoes and _brushing teeth_ , as Qwan calls it. (And maybe it’s also because that _goddamn_ review is rankling on her still, she’ll show A.Fowl a clumsy goddamn _coupe_ with her foot in his _ass_.)

Regular maintenance stops cavities, after all, so Holly goes through her warm ups. She’s feeling every callus and every complaint in her body like a gift, she _earnt_ this, every little bit of pain a badge she wears proudly. And it’s defiant, too, in the face of that review; she practices _coupe_ after _coupe_ , watching herself in the mirror, checking for the faintest tremor, the slightest flaw. She can’t find one, but she’ll check with No.1 the next time she and him practice together.

And then she does her jumps, each _allegro_ a reminder of how far she’s come since she was a little fourteen year old girl in a big city, her father’s spirit fading with every day her mother was in the ground.

Her pirouettes are beautiful, and being _en pointe_ has never scared her, but she’s always loved the jumps the most; the closest she can come to flying of her own volition, the earth and all its constraints beneath her.

Her phone goes off an hour and a half into her practice, and she’s so focused she almost doesn’t hear it. Two missed calls.From _Root._

Even as she’s scrambling to hit _redial_ , he’s calling her again.

“ _Short,”_ he barks down the phone, and she winces. “ _What on earth are you doing that’s so goddamn important you couldn’t pick up my calls?”_

“Sorry,” she says immediately, even as she’s prickling in annoyance, because is anyone _else_ here practicing with her? Is anyone _else_ working this hard?

“ _I have news. Big news. Where are you?”_

“At the studio,” she says. “Is everything okay?”

(The last time the director rang her with _big news_ , Juliet had broken her ankle before opening night and Holly had to play two roles. Needless to say, she’s not overjoyed to hear the words.)

“ _It’s fine, great even. Are you sitting down, Short? I think you should sit down.”_

 _Christ_ , she thinks, _has Opal died? Maybe Opal died._

“ _Short! You still there?”_

“Yes, Com- uh.” Holly winces. “Yes. I’m here.”

“ _If you were about to call me Commander again, I’ll make you do_ saut de chats _for an hour, I swear to Christ, Short.”_ Root takes a deep breath, and she wonders if he’s smoking one of his noxious cigars despite his doctor’s very firm orders. “ _Alright. Holly Short.”_

“I am _begging_ you to tell me before I retire,” Holly says.

_“Ungrateful,”_ he mutters. “ _Unbelievable. I ring with good news, and this is how you thank me?”_ Another deep breath, and Holly rolls her eyes, and then Root says the words she’s been working all her life to hear.

“ _You got it, Short. Qwan and I just decided, and the board has approved. Next season, you’re the principal.”_

It takes a few seconds for this to filter through, and her legs go a little wobbly; she has to reach behind her and grab the barre.

“I’m the principal?” she says dumbly.

“ _You’re the principal,”_ Root confirms. “ _Don’t get touchy feely on me, Short, and for God’s sake, don’t fuck this up.”_

“Thank you,” Holly breathes. “I won’t let you down.”

“ _I know,”_ he says, even gruffer than usual, and then he hangs up.

Holly punches the air, and even does a cartwheel, and then she calls everyone she knows.

Holly Short is the first black female principal dancer in the New York City Ballet.

It feels fucking _good._

-

“To Holly!” Juliet says loudly.

“To Holly!” the others echo heartily, and they clink their beers together, slopping froth on the already dirty tables. _You don’t come to_ Haven _for the hygiene,_ Trouble said once, when they found old chewing gum stuck under their table, _you come for the food._

Trouble sits next to her, arm casually slung around her shoulders as he takes a sip of his beer, and Juliet’s on the other side, carefully folding up an incredibly cheesy slice of pizza.

“Fucking good job, Short,” Adam “Chix” Verbil says cheerfully from across the table. “And about time, too,” he adds flirtily, winking at her.

“An understatement,” Alex “No.1” Qwan says as he drops into the empty chair opposite.

“No.1!” Holly says delightedly.

“Dad sends his love,” No.1 tells her. “And not to be all _me me me_ , but I have some good news as well, actually.”

“Well, go on then,” Grub says gloomily. Trouble rolls his eyes.

“I’m not in the Corps anymore-”

“ _What!”_ Juliet says sharply.

“ _Because I’m choreographing the next season,”_ No.1 says triumphantly, and Holly slaps at Trouble’s shoulder in disbelief. Chix and Trouble exclaim something incoherent at the same time, and Juliet furiously gestures at the waiter to bring them another beer for No.1.

“The Commander just told me today,” No.1 says, unable to stop grinning.

“You’re so _young_ ,” Grub says in disbelief.

“I bet Cudgeon and Sool are having absolute fucking shit fits,” Juliet says in wonder. “The first black female principal _and_ a Vietnamese dancer not even twenty six choreographing the next season?”

“I don’t think it’s like that,” No.1 says uncomfortably. “Holly and I are both good at what we do, and Dad’s been backing us for a long time-”

“You’re too nice sometimes, No.1,” Holly says dryly, and Trouble laughs.

“In any case, we made it,” No.1 says. “So, go us!”

“Go us,” Holly agrees, tapping her bottle against his.

“Chix, weren’t you bringing your girlfriend?” No.1 asks, taking a piece of pizza.

“Nah,” he says. “I broke up with her last night.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that,” No. 1 says quickly. Juliet scoffs.

“Yeah, like he doesn’t have thirty Tinder dates lined up after we finish here,” Trouble says.

“I mean, look at all of this,” Chix says, gesturing to his body.

“I’ve seen better,” Holly and Juliet say at the same time.

“That’s not difficult,” Trouble grins.

“I’m an Adonis,” Chix grumbles.

“You’re something,” Juliet says. “Hey, fuck off, I want that piece.”

“Anything for you, Juliet,” Chix says, batting his eyes.

“Eurgh. You’re oilier than this pizza sometimes, I swear to God,” Juliet says, and punches him in the shoulder. Chix yelps, and Grub starts bitching about how _he’s_ still just a soloist, and then Trouble tries to give him a one-armed noogie over the table, and Holly is so incredibly content, and happy, and _excited_.

-

Artemis and Butler go to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and spend most of the afternoon perusing the current exhibit.

(Well, Artemis peruses. Butler patiently follows him from piece to piece.)

And then they have a surprisingly lovely dinner along the river before _My Fair Lady_ , which is not the best that Artemis has seen, but it’s worth it to see Butler mouthing the words without fault.

The problem is, really, that Artemis has “done” the Big Apple, and he starts to wonder if perhaps this trip isn’t a waste of time. That night, he’s indulgently checking his relatively inactive Facebook feed when he sees Juliet has shared some sort of inane meme post. The content is useless but the post itself gives him an excellent idea in the vein of two birds, one stone.

He sends her a text: _Juliet, I find myself somewhat at a loss. Would you perhaps take me on a tour of the city? I’d pay for everything, of course, and it would be fascinating to see it from a resident’s point of view, rather than a tourist’s._

A few minutes later, Juliet replies.

_ur a fucking weirdo sometimes arty but yeah ok np, i’ll take u to a mugging and we can get a bagel or something lmao_

Tragically, Artemis is familiar enough with Juliet’s coarseness that this does not faze him.

_Excellent,_ he replies. _I’ll be there at 9 o’clock sharp._

_ok but u cant have Butler drive us around_

Artemis exhales. _Whyever not?_

_1 youll ruin my street cred, 2 the 99% of NYers dont have a chauffer and 3 i said so_

The idea is horrible but if he wants to be have a more familial relationship with Juliet, he supposes he’ll have to… indulge her.

(Taking the subway? A violation of human rights. Juliet has no idea what he is doing for her.)

-

Opal Koboi has, her entire life, had extremely regimented ideas about how her career will proceed. While she could have gone into almost any field, any life, ballet appeals to her. The coolness of it, the calculation of it. It’s mathematical; a _port de bras_ is an elegant sum, a _petite allegro_ a perfect equation. If you do this, then you can do _this_ , and Opal’s always loved having an adoring public to boot. When she was young, it was her useless father; when she was in high school, it was the useless boys who thought she would ever deign to touch them; in the NYCB, it’s her adoring audience of hundreds.

She reached the role of principal at nineteen, and managed to hold it consecutively for seven seasons at the age of twenty two, and she had planned on it being that way until she retired. Needless to say, when Opal doesn’t receive her biannual call from that buffoon Julius, she is… unimpressed.

(She screams very loudly, at a very high pitch, for a solid minute. Mervall has the luck of being in their private studio’s bathroom at the time, but Descant is stretching his hamstrings on the barre and briefly wonders if his eardrums have blown out.)

And to lose it to _Short_ . Short and her cropped hair and her ugly mismatching eyes and her _appallingly_ bulky thighs? _Short?_

Entirely too politically correct, this is _nonsense_ , who cares if she’s black because _Opal is still better than her without even flexing a single muscle._ Between that idiot choreographer and his idiot son and Root, who has _never_ liked Opal, it’s obvious she’s been conspired against.

Oh, this is absolutely unacceptable.

So, Opal calls Cudgeon first. She’s sucked his frankly disgusting penis more than once to sway him, and Minerva doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

“I’m sorry, Opal,” he says. “The board took it to a vote, and I was outmatched.”

“Oh,” she says, sweet and sad. “Are you sure, Brian? I’d do _anything_ to be principal again…”

She trails off. Predictably, as the idiot he is, he takes the bait.

“Look, why don’t I see what I can do?” he says, in that low voice he thinks is sexy but is absolutely _anything_ but. “Why don’t you come over tonight and we can… brainstorm.”

“Of course,” she breathes.

_Brainstorm_ . Honestly. The brain above his shoulders is roughly the size of a walnut, and the one _below_ them is much the same. She doubts he’d be able to produce a faint breeze, let alone a _storm._

Next, she calls Sool, whose penis is slightly less disgusting but who is far less easy to manipulate.

“It’s out of my hands, Opal.” he says briskly before she even says a word.

“Look, you and I both know this is a bad move for the NYCB,” Opal says reasonably, because Sool is white, in his fifties and likes high ticket sales. “The public isn’t ready for a black female principal. Remember how bad ticket sales were for _Swan Lake_ when Lenny Qweffor was the principal that season?”

(Opal tactfully doesn’t remind Sool it was bad because Qweffor was suffering from undiagnosed schizophrenia at the time.)

“True,” he concedes, but sounds like he needs a little more nudging.

“Not to mention, I’m sure you’ve read that awful review published in the Times,” Opal says innocently. “It’s gone viral, you know, and Holly was absolutely torn to pieces in it.”

“You’re right,” Sool says. “But as I have already said, Opal, it’s out of my hands.”

Smoothly, Opal changes tack. “I know, Ark, I know. I just hate to think of the NYBC stocks dropping. Why don’t I come over this afternoon and we can discuss it further? I know Cudgeon feels the same way. Perhaps you aren’t as outvoted as you think.”

“My wife is home,” he says, a touch uncomfortably. Opal rolls her eyes.

“I’ll come to your office,” she says instead.

“Alright. I can be there at two.”

“I knew you wouldn’t let me down,” she promises breathily, and almost spoils it all by laughing when he clears his throat and abruptly disconnects the call.

Men. Absolutely _idiotic._

Later over lunch when Minerva asks her to dinner, Opal looks sad and apologises profusely, tells her how she’s seeing a friend who happens to be in town.

The moment Minerva leaves, though, Opal goes to her wardrobe and pulls out her favourite lingerie, a plan already choreographed and in motion.

-

Artemis tries to make a habit out of not eating food from edgy little cafes in gentrified neighbourhoods. It’s really not the style he’s going for or approves of. Not to mention, it’s not a scene he exactly… blends into.

“Well, between that vintage undercut you got going on and your brown oxfords, it could be worse,” Juliet informs him cheerily. He’s appropriately horrified, but not as horrified as he is by the general lack of cleanliness in the public transport system. But Juliet, who is as bright as the autumn sun, is loud and brash and makes jokes at everyone’s expense, and the trip isn’t as bad as he thought it would be.

(God, he really hopes she never sees the review.)

Besides, Juliet knows him well enough not to take him anywhere _bad_. They wander up through a charming food market on the east side, and then they go get lunch at a little cafe he would never have given a second glance. The bagel is appallingly delicious.

“I know what I’m about,” Juliet says smugly. A nearby man who has many holes in his ears and an immaculately styled beard asks for her number. She takes it with a smile that’s as charming as the denim overalls she’s wearing and when he goes back to his table, she shoves it in the vase that’s serving as a table piece.

“I don’t trust a man that spends that much time on his beard,” Juliet answers to Artemis’s inquiring glance. “He looks like a vaudeville villain.”

Artemis laughs at this. “I have to say, I’ve never gotten the appeal of facial hair.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong,” Juliet says, taking a sip from her coconut milkshake. “I like a good beard. When you can grow one one day, your partner will thank you for it.”

“I’ll have you know I can and _have_ grown a beard,” he informs her haughtily. God, but this artisan bagel is good. Between the carefully shaved ham and the tart mustard, and the perfectly boiled bagel itself…

“I call bullshit,” she exclaims. “Artemis Fowl, you are a _liar_.”

Well, she’s not wrong, technically, so Artemis takes out his phone and finds the photo from a few years back before that _ridiculous_ Halloween. It’s of him and Minerva (unfortunate) but there he is, aged twenty, sporting a decent black beard.

“Holy shit,” Juliet says.

“Thank you,” he says pointedly. “I was very proud of that beard, and I don’t appreciate your denial of it.”

“Why’d you shave it off?” she asks.

Artemis grimaces. “The itchiness, mainly. I only grew it because Father- sorry, Dad- wanted to do a family Halloween costume.”

Juliet stares. “Hold up. Since when do the Fowls celebrate Halloween?”

“Since Beckett started watching American kids cartoons,” Artemis says wearily, taking a sip of coffee, which is _also_ very good.

“So,” Juliet says after a while. “Are you going to tell me what the costume was?”

“Must I?”

“Uh, _yeah_.”

“Pirates,” he grumbles. “We were all pirates. Even Mum. She had this fake monstrosity of a mustache glued on.”

Juliet lunges over the table and snatches his phone before he can even blink. She rifles through and finds the photos and he has to sit through the rest of the meal with her howling with laughter like a demented baboon.

(It’s not that bad. He grins despite himself, and they share a dessert. There’s no whoopee cushions in sight. Small miracles, and all that.) 

After lunch, Juliet takes him to the Morbid Anatomy Museum in Brooklyn, which is so delightfully bizarre and well curated that Artemis and her spend a good three hours there, going through each piece of the museum in detail. He particularly enjoys the rare book collection, and Juliet is momentarily lost to a fit of the giggles as they peruse the comically horrifying taxidermy section.

“Box fox,” she hiccups over and over as they stand in front of what a fox taxidermied in a boxing pose. Little boxing gloves have been painstakingly placed over its front paws. It’s an absolute mess. Artemis is quite charmed.

Perhaps… New York isn’t quite so bad.

Juliet informs him of her plan to take him for dinner at her favourite sushi place, a little shop called _Atlantis_ , but first, they have to stop by the NYCB studios.

“After all,” she says as they step in, “I thought you might think it was a little cool to see where the magic happens.”

Artemis does indeed think it will be a little cool. He’s aware the NYCB has used the same studio since its establishment in the 1940’s, and Artemis has always found it interesting to step inside places of similar historical significance.

The building itself looks like standard old New York Italianate style architecture, far down on his list of preferred styles. Inside has of course been updated over the years, but there’s little hints about the place; old framed newspapers, photos of the Corps throughout the years. Being here makes Artemis feel guilty again about that stupid article. (While Juliet was in the bathroom at the cafe, he got around to blocking the spam, and requested the NY Times remove the article. Naturally, they haven’t.)

As the lift goes up slowly, Juliet talks.

“So, the first few floors are the admin offices, as well as PR, HR, all that fun stuff,” she says. “The board has their private offices on the middle floor, and then it’s all the studios. Some of the dancers have their private studios closer to home, though. Anyway, the beginner and intermediate classes are taken on floors six to eight, the ninth floor is dedicated for the choreographers, and the top floor is for us.”

The lift doors open, and when they stepping into the main studio at the very top, the history is undeniable. Artemis can smell the old wood, the sweat, that New York skyline out through the window.

It’s hard to articulate, he thinks as he studies the arches of the ceiling, which is no small statement. Like a liminal space, but not. When Artemis looks away, though, he sees that there’s someone already here.

It’s her. The Sugar Plum Fairy.

Holly Short.

He had the perfect seat during that fateful viewing those months ago- the perfect seat for the ballet, that is. Which is in a box just far enough away that one gets the full _scope_ of the performance, but close enough to catch the delicacy of movement. It is, however, far enough that the face is rendered in expression, rather than detail. Seeing her up close is a far different beast.

The first thing Artemis thinks is that Holly Short is beautiful, all five foot two of her, from the cropped black fuzz of her head down to her battered dancer feet. She’s wearing a green sports bra and matching green tights and the color should look _ridiculous_ but against the warm nut brown of her skin, it looks wonderful, accentuating the rigid muscular curves of her.

The second thing Artemis thinks, as he watches her perform a joyous _grande allegro_ with as much effort as he would expend on twitching his finger, _with her eyes closed_ , is that review is perhaps the most indulgent mistake he has ever made in his life.

She lands the jump, of course. Perfectly. Marvellously. Artemis is embarrassed to find his lips part. The closest he has ever come to a gasp.

Holly, meanwhile, laughs. The sound is pure, joyous, and she does a cartwheel. She’s so absorbed in her happiness that she hasn’t even noticed them.

(Artemis feels guiltier than ever.)

Juliet clears her throat. Holly wheels around.

“You scared the _shit_ out of me!” she exclaims as she approaches them, and she sounds _lovely_ , deep and full of laughter and a faint non-descript American accent, and apparently Artemis is waxing lyrical about someone’s _voice_ now. “What are you doing here? I thought you were out all day?”

“I _have_ been out all day,” Juliet says, and Holly says something snappy, but she’s close enough now that Artemis can see her eyes. Her mismatched eyes. A perfect, shocking mirror image of his own.

(Artemis doesn’t believe in signs, he doesn’t believe in soulmates, _he does not believe in this nonsense_ so why is every inch of him singing, singing, _singing?_ )

“-is Arty,” Juliet is saying, and that wrenches him out of his thoughts.

“Oh, _this_ is the bodyguard family guy, huh?” Holly says with a grin. She looks Artemis from his toes to his head. He desperately hopes she likes what she sees.

“Well, he’s not what I was-” Holly begins to say jokingly, and then stops at his eyes. “Oh,” she says. “Your eyes-”

“We match,” Artemis says, and Juliet raises a brow at his low tone, but he can’t quite tear his gaze away from hers.

“Yeah,” Holly says, and her little smile makes him swallow. “I guess we do. I’m Holly.”

“Artemis,” he says, and extends his hand automatically. She shakes it. Naturally, because apparently he’s living in a shoddy romance novel these days, the contact sends a jolt down his spine. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Short.”

“The same to you, but Holly is fine,” Holly replies. He thinks if he calls her by her first name he may die from the intimacy, good _God what is happening to him_. “Did Juliet take you to the Morbid Anatomy Museum?”

“Yes,” Artemis says in surprise. “You’ve been?”

“It was my suggestion,” she says, bending down to pick up her bag. Her biceps flex with the motion and his mouth goes dry. “My dad used to take me there when I was a kid. I think as a biologist he found it particularly ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous, but charming,” Artemis says. “I have to thank you, it really was a marvellous little museum.”

“Are you finished, Holly?” Juliet asks.

“Yeah,” she nods, pulling on a sweater. “What are you guys going to do for dinner?”

“Going to head to _Atlantis_ ,” Juliet says. “Do you want to come with?”

“My treat,” Artemis says quickly, and Juliet gives him a look that Artemis ignores.

“Really? It’s a little expensive,” Holly warns him.

“He can afford it,” Juliet say dryly.

“It’s really no trouble,” Artemis asserts, and his heart is damn near beating out of his chest.

“Well, I won’t say no to a free meal. Hold on, let me put on my sneakers-”

Holly hops about on one foot as she pulls her socks on, and goes find her shoes. While her back is turned, Juliet elbows Artemis in the ribs. Hard.

“I saw that look,” Juliet whispers gleefully as he keels over a little. “Was that what I thought it was, Arty?”

He refuses to answer, and as Juliet goes to shove at him playfully, he steps aside. He’s smiling despite himself; it’s such a… _sibling-esque_ interaction. It’s exactly what he came here for, and meeting Holly makes it all the sweeter.

(And if he’s hoping Juliet hasn’t seen the review, he’s on his hands and knees _praying_ that Holly hasn’t.)

-

Holly didn’t know what she was expecting from this mysterious Irishman, but it’s not the man in front of her. It’s stupid, Juliet told her he was in his early twenties, but she still kind of thought he’d be a middle aged businessman. Not some guy who looks like he could be on the cover of _Forbes’s Thirty under Thirty_ and talks like he’s in a Jane Austen novel.

Holly’s not uncomfortable with extravagant wealth- she lives in New York, the income disparity is as in your face as a determined busker- but she’s certainly _aware_ of it. And she can tell with a glance that this man’s hair product likely costs more than her monthly income. Old money, tasteful money, he doesn’t stink of wealth like many rich New Yorkers do. His suit is a classy deep blue and perfectly tailored; his oxford shoes a well cared for, buttery brown leather; he smells really _nice. T_ he type of cologne that’s probably been handmade from cinnamon growing off the coast of Turkey or something similarly ridiculous.

So Holly puts him down as _spoilt rich kid_ , and then she sees his _eyes, her_ eyes, framed in a pretty-boy face with a narrow, aquiline nose, a jaw with a five o’clock shadow and cheekbones that she could cut herself on.

(And his _voice_ , that clipped Irish baritone-)

Holly shakes all this off, and accompanies them to dinner. So maybe he’s not a kid, and he’s hot, and he has money. He’s dime-a-dozen in this city and she’s twenty five damn years old, she isn’t going to turn into a blushing teenager from a pretty face.

Still, she’ll take a free meal. A hot guy paying for it is a bonus.

“So, what brings you to New York, Artemis?” Holly asks once they sit down, helping herself to a plate of aburi salmon as it comes by on the conveyor belt.

Artemis doesn’t reply immediately, scanning the sushi dishes coming past them. “I recently finished my guest lectures at Harvard,” he says slowly, and Holly laughs. “And-”

“Guest lectures? In rocket science, I assume,” she jokes.

“Neuroscience, actually. Rocket science is next on the list,” he adds wryly, and he has this dry little sarcastic sort of smile that makes her want to hit him even as she laughs, and is he- is he _serious_?

“He’s a genius,” Juliet sighs, pouring herself some soy sauce. “Please don’t encourage him.”

“Genius doesn’t need encouragement,” Artemis says. “In any case, I happened to return home a few weeks before Juliet’s visit. It was initially quite nice to spend some time with my family, but my twin brothers are being… difficult, right now.”

“Are you _still_ pissed about the whoopee cushion thing?” Juliet asks.

“Beckett, I have come to expect it from,” Artemis says to her. “But from _Myles?_ It is _very_ disappointing.

“Juliet’s presence was a welcome reprieve,” Artemis continues. “As Butler planned to assist her moving in with you, and I had nothing else to amuse myself with, I thought I might as well come and spend some time with her.”

“Oh,” Juliet says in surprise. “That’s… really nice, Arty.”

“I _am_ known to indulge in sentiment every now and again,” he says, and Juliet snorts. “After New York, I’ll likely travel to France for a while. I have a clean-energy project I’m working on at the moment, and it’s almost ready to put to the UN.”

Again, Holly waits for the joke, but Juliet just helps herself to some ginger.

“So, uh, between neuroscience and environmental protection, what else do you do in your spare time?” Holly asks.

“Eurgh,” Juliet says.

“Anything that takes my fancy,” Artemis says pleasantly. “Technology and environmental protection are my prominent interests.”

“My God, you’ve become _modest_ ,” Juliet says in shock. “The last time my friend asked you that, you listed your hobbies. _Alphabetically_.”

“I was fifteen,” he grumbles.

“At fifteen, I was into pro-wrestling,” Juliet says. “Much more normal.”

“Yes,” Artemis says. “Nothing says _normal_ like wearing a purple leopard print leotard for a month straight.”

As they banter, Holly finds with every passing moment she knows less and less what to make of Artemis, his dry wit and his old money politeness. He’s straddling the line between confidence and arrogance, impressing and annoying her in equal measure, all the while smiling at her with those strikingly familiar eyes of his.

“But what about yourself?” Artemis asks Holly, snapping her out of her thoughts. “I saw your performance last season when I happened to be in New York.”

“You watch the ballet?” Holly says. What is she saying, of course he does. He’s the sort of person has a reserved box and gets personal invitations to opening night.

“I consider myself quite the _balletomane_ ,” he replies.

“Anyone can drop ballet terms,” Holly says mischievously.

“True,” he concedes. “But I know a _croix_ from a _croisé_.”

“Well, go on then,” Holly says with a grin. “How did I do?”

At this, Artemis looks a little... uncomfortable? “Quite marvellously, from memory. Your final _coupé_ helped put the _grand_ in _grand battement_.”

(Holly isn’t sure why, but this reminds her of something, the way he’s phrased it.)

“Coming from him, that’s practically a standing ovation,” Juliet says, and Artemis raises his eyebrows.

“I speak only the truth,” he says.

“You’re damn right you do,” Holly grins, and then, because he’ll understand the significance, she says, “I found out yesterday that I’ve been made the principal of the next season.”

“My sincere congratulations,” he says, and he sounds so earnest she can’t help but warm to him, dry snark aside. 

“Holly’s making history,” Juliet nods. “I’m very proud of her.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Holly says, and Juliet throws a napkin at her.

-

“How was your day?” Butler asks him when he pulls up to the curb. He spent his day off at the spa, which was remarkably relaxing and very indulgent, if not for the constant thought that Artemis could be mugged at any moment. So he’s quite pleased to see Artemis stab-free. But Artemis had been very insistent, and Butler knows Juliet still keeps up her self defense classes, and his back was sore. He’s not as young as he used to be, _especially_ after looking after the Fowl twins.

“It was wonderful,” Artemis says, and Butler raises his brows.

“Wonderful? Artemis, Juliet may be my sister but I’m well aware she can be… energetic, at times-”

“Truly, Butler,” Artemis says. “It was a lovely day.”

Butler glances at Artemis in the rear window. He has his chin in his hand and he’s looking out the window; his phone remains untouched in his suit pocket, and he’s _smiling_.

The last time Artemis looked like this, he was fifteen, and he had just met Minerva Paradizo in the flesh.

“Butler,” Artemis begins. “In your opinion, after leaving a relationship, how long should one wait before beginning a new one?”  
If Artemis is interested in Juliet, Butler may have to hang himself. There’s only so much he can take.

“Well,” Butler says diplomatically. “It depends on the person and the relationship. I assume you are referring to yourself?”

“You assume correctly, old friend,” Artemis says.

“I find it surprising a qualified psychologist is asking me for relationship advice,” Butler says a little desperately.

“I value your opinion,” Artemis says sincerely.

“I think you should be careful not to break someone’s heart,” Butler says slowly. “Be sure that you aren’t just entering into what will ultimately be a rebound.”

“Oh, I’m not concerned about _that_ ,” Artemis says confidently. “My relationship with Minerva was an incredibly formative experience, but I should have ended it far earlier than I did. I do not harbour lingering romantic attachment to her.”

“Then, I suppose… you could, ah, commence a new relationship whenever you wanted,” Butler says.

“I think so as well,” Artemis says happily. “Which leads me to my next issue.”

Oh, God.

“Having met Minerva when we were both still teenagers, I am painfully aware that my experience in dating is minimal,” Artemis muses. “Especially when it comes to a clear difference in social standing, cultural background and age.”

Butler violently wishes that Artemis didn’t value his opinion. It’s a thought which a ten year younger Butler would be outraged by.

“Not that I see these as issues, or flaws,” Artemis continues. “Rather, I wish to both acknowledge and overcome these difference in a respectful way. Which may be difficult considering that in a fit of post-break up pique, I may have published a review online of her work that was… less than kind.”

Butler shifts into big brother mode. “What did you write about Juliet?” he demands in a sharp tone, and Artemis blinks.

“Juliet?”

“Artemis,” he warns.

“I didn’t write anything about Juliet,” Artemis says, bewildered, and Butler relaxes even as he’s confused.

“Then- why would you be worried-?” Butler says, and the two of them stare at each other in the mirror until Artemis suddenly laughs.

“Butler,” Artemis says, “I believe you have misunderstood me. It is not Juliet in whom I am interested.”

“Oh, thank God,” Butler says before he can stop himself.

“It’s Ms. Short,” Artemis says.

It’s unexpected, but infinitely better than the alternative, and Butler feels like he’s dodged a bullet. “Well, I think most of your concerns can be resolved by honest communication.”

Artemis makes a face. “I also think so. But I was rather hoping you had an alternative.”

Butler laughs. “Sorry, Artemis.”

“Also, _Juliet_? Really, Butler?”

“She’s my sister,” Butler says pointedly. “And I happen to think she’s lovely.”

“Oh, would you look at that delightful neo-gothic architecture,” Artemis says suddenly, looking out the window, and Butler grins.

-

Unfortunately, Juliet is too busy the next day running errands to show him more of New York, so Artemis takes it upon himself to follow Butler’s recommendation and indulge in the spa treatments on offer at the hotel. Meanwhile, Butler goes to see a physiotherapist for his back pains.

“I hope this Mr. Diggums knows what he’s doing,” Butler grumbles. “I’ll be back later, Artemis. Enjoy yourself.”

“That’s the plan,” Artemis says, and indeed, spends most of his day being pampered- and thinking about Holly Short.

He wasn’t lying to Butler when he said he wasn’t holding onto affection for Minerva, but Artemis didn’t expect the suddenness of this, the heart-stopping _attraction_ of it so soon after a break up. Minerva had been so smart, and so prim and proper, and she shared the majority of his opinions. It felt… not natural, but sensible. When they had sex, it had been adequate and enjoyable; certainly she was an attractive woman and he cared for her. But Artemis never looked at Minerva in her gym clothing and thought he’d quite like to make love to her then and there on the dirty floor, sweat and stink and all. He never heard Minerva bellow with raucous laughter at one of Juliet’s jokes and thought he wanted to make her laugh like that every single day. And he’s certainly never threatened the NY Times with legal action if they don’t remove something he’s published because he knew Minerva would be hurt by it.

(The NY Times have since removed the review. Artemis has never been more relieved.)

The evidence has been expunged, but the crime remains, and it’s impossible that Holly hasn’t seen the article (or at least been told of it) prior to its removal.

He has two days left in New York. He could extend it, of course, but he really does need to go visit Zito and help prepare for their meeting at the UN. Two days to both right his wrong, and then somehow win Holly over in spite of it.

Artemis once rescued his father from the Russian Mafia at age twelve. Surely this should be easy.

As he gets a pedicure, he rings Juliet. It doesn’t hurt to have a little help.

“ _Hey,”_ she says. “ _Ah, not that one,_ that _one_ \- _Sorry, Artemis, just doing some grocery shopping. What’s up?”_

“I wanted to thank you for a lovely day yesterday,” he says. “Are you free again tomorrow?”

“ _Yeah, actually,”_ she says, and then her voice turns sly. _“Do you want me to invite Holly along?”_

“I would, actually,” Artemis says firmly. “I quite enjoyed her company last night.”

“ _Yeah, no shit, Arty,”_ Juliet says.

“Did she- that is to say, would she like to-”

“ _She had a good time,”_ Juliet says assuringly, and he can _hear_ her grinning. “ _Do you want to do anything in particular?”_

“Between the two of you, I’m sure you can come up with something,” Artemis says.

“ _Are you paying again?”_

“Of course,” he says indignantly.

“ _Hey, just checking. Alright, we’ll be out the front of your hotel at, uh- ten?”_

“Are you asking me, or telling me, Juliet?” Artemis says playfully.

“ _I don’t know, do you want Holly to come or not, Artemis?”_ Juliet says, just as playfully.

“I’ll see you at ten,” Artemis says immediately.

“ _Yeah, that’s what I thought,”_ Juliet says, and hangs up.

-

It takes a little bit of convincing on Juliet’s part to get Holly to forgo her morning training for once, but she agrees after Juliet mentions Artemis is footing the day’s bill.

Juliet notices that even before that, though, Holly’s protests seem token. Maybe it’s because she’s still in a good mood about being principal, maybe it’s because she enjoys spending time with her best friend.

Holly’s never been good at hiding her emotions, all passion and anger and excitement. Juliet _loves_ that about her. Except when it comes to romantic relationships, Holly suddenly takes a trip into Opposite World and keeps to herself about it. She’s dated two people since Juliet’s known her, and Juliet only found out because she literally bumped into them _on_ a date. So while she’d _like_ to think she knows Holly well enough now to be able to tell if Holly would potentially be interested, she isn’t _sure_ , either.

Meeting Artemis at the Four Seasons, Juliet watches them both as intently as she can without being obvious, which is _very_.

Juliet sees how Artemis has deliberately opted for a more casual look, dropping the tie (Christ, is he in love?) and a thick woolen coat. Juliet sees how he’s hanging on her every word, even as he’s snarking and dead-panning. It’d be sickening if it weren’t so cute.

Of course, Holly doesn’t know Artemis like Juliet does, she supposes, so maybe Holly is just seeing the snarking and the dead-panning and nothing else.

“We’re taking the M102 down to the Bushwick street art,” Juliet explains as they walk down the bustling street. “Holly’s been meaning to go check it out for a while now, right?”

“Street art?” Artemis asks. “What style?”

“No clue,” Juliet says cheerily.

“I’m not sure,” Holly says to Artemis. “A friend of mine recommended it to me, and you can only go to the Met so many times.”

“You like art, then?” Artemis asks her.

“I wanted to be a sculptor as a kid,” she says, and off the two of them go, talking about their favourite period and whether Cubism is really _all that_ (“I mean, yeah, it was a fundamental and world-changing art period, but so were cave paintings,” Holly says and Artemis makes a noise of scandalized outrage). Juliet doesn’t know too much about fine art, so she just tunes out and watches as they have discussions that slip in and out of arguments that have Holly passionately defending dadaism even as Artemis bemoans it, but the entire time, they’re so clearly _enjoying_ it. Holly listens to him like she listens to Qwan talk about choreography, and for once, even when its obvious Artemis disagrees, he doesn’t cut across her.

Juliet actually has to shake Holly when it’s time to get off at their stop, and even then, they’re _still_ talking as they push through the other passengers all the way down to the little cafe Grub mentioned did a good latte. Juliet feels like a third wheel, which is _not_ something she is used to, but she graciously allows it. She’s never seen Artemis so engaged in someone’s words before. It’s refreshing, and dorky, and really lovely. And maybe she takes a few photos, too.

“What are you doing?” Holly demands when she looks up from the mural they’re examining to see Juliet’s sneaky photography.

“Taking photos,” Juliet says casually. “You know, for posterity and shit. Say cheese, Arty.”

“If you’re going to be so dismissive of my rights,” Artemis says, “Make sure you get my good side.”

“I would if you had one,” Juliet says, and Holly laughs as Artemis splutters.

-

Orange peel and vanilla and- bizarrely- the faintest hint of sage? The pastry itself is perfect, the icing delicate, and Artemis is shocked that an $8 pastry could be so delicious and innovative.

“Fuck _me_ ,” Juliet says loudly as she bites into her caramel croissant, and a nearby elderly man glares at her. “I forgot how good these are.”

“I told you,” Holly says. “ _Caprices by Sophie_ is where it’s at.”

They’re sitting on a worn down little bench in the East River State Park, watching the ferries go by. The sun is warm, the breeze cool after a brief spell of rain earlier, and Artemis’s thigh is pressed against Holly’s. Life is exceptionally good. 

“I know I said I was going to save one for Dom,” Juliet sighs, “But this second caramel croissant is calling to me.”

“Perhaps I should take care of it,” Artemis says, and Juliet clutches the paper bag close to her chest.

“Oh, I should have asked No.1 to come along,” Holly says, and Artemis glances up at her; her brows are creased. “I’ve been meaning to go with him for ages.”

“No.1?” Artemis asks. “Unusual name.”

“His real name is Alex Qwan,” Juliet says. “I… how did he get the nickname again, Holly?”

“Qwan?” Artemis says in surprise. “Related to Joseph Qwan, the choreographer?”

“Yeah, Qwan’s adopted son. He’s actually choreographing next season,” Holly says. “And I have no idea, Juliet.”

“We have a lot of nicknames, actually,” Juliet muses.

“Root hates it,” Holly grins.

“So does Dom,” Juliet sighs. “He has to keep a mental file of who’s who whenever I give him a call. How’s his back, Artemis?”

“Much better,” Artemis says, taking another bite of his eclair. “Your Mr. Diggums certainly knows his stuff.”

“Yeah, Mulch is our go to physio for a reason,” Juliet says, opening the paper bag with Butler’s croissant and taking an exorbitant sniff of the contents. “Christ, that’s good. Mulch has got the most incredible hands, apparently he took some hokey-pokey course in reflexology before he went into physio.”

“Mulch?”

“Nicknames,” Holly reminds Artemis.

“Ah, of course. And why is he called Mulch?”

“Likes gardening,” Holly shrugs. “Not our most original, unfortunately.”

“Maybe we should give _you_ a nickname,” Juliet says wickedly.

“I really must decline,” Artemis says politely.

“Oh, but I _insist_ ,” Holly says, just as politely, her mouth twitching.

“Oh, Ms. Short, but I mustn’t.”

“Oh, but you _must,”_ Holly cries, throwing her arm up dramatically, and nearly clipping Artemis in the head.

“Careful,” Juliet says. “Butler will have to kill you if Artemis comes back with a bruise.”

Holly grins, puts her arm around Artemis’s shoulders. She leans over him to look at Juliet, and Artemis is engulfed by the smell of her, laundry detergent and moisturiser. She has dark little freckles on her cheeks he didn’t notice before, and he can feel himself _blushing_.

“Butler wouldn’t hurt one of Artemis’s friends, right?” Holly says innocently. “Look at us, all buddy-buddy.”

“The closest of chums,” Artemis nods, and Juliet rolls her eyes.

“See, Arty here knows what it’s all about,” Holly says, and between the proximity and his name like that on her tongue, Artemis finds himself abruptly standing up, startling the other two.

“Rubbish,” he says nonsensically, gesturing with the paper bag in his fist, and then strides over to the bin.

 _Get a hold of yourself_ , Artemis tells himself. _Yes, she smells lovely and is beautiful and has approximately twenty freckles but you are Artemis Fowl the Second and you are meant to be a smooth aristocrat so_ act _like one._

He puts the paper in the bin, takes a deep breath, and then turns around, slips in the mud and lands face first in it.

-

“Mud Boy,” Holly says suddenly. She’s sandwiched between a grumpy Artemis and a Juliet still struggling to contain her laughter as they take a taxi back to the Four Seasons.

Juliet coughs.

“Excuse me?” Artemis says, looking at her. They managed to wipe off most of the mud with the napkins from the bakery, but his white shirt is stained dark brown, as are his pants, and there’s a few little specks of mud on his face he missed. He looks rumpled and undone and not at all like an old money millionaire.

(He looks… God, but he looks _cute_.)

“Mud Boy,” Holly repeats. “That’s your nickname now.”

“I will literally pay you to never call me that again,” Artemis says, glaring at her, and Juliet starts laughing.

The taxi pulls over in front of the Four Seasons, and Artemis gets out.

“What are you two doing?” he says, when Holly and Juliet make no move to follow him.

“Uh, going home?” Juliet asks.

“Whatever for?” he says, mystified.

“Don’t you want to clean up?” Holly says.

“Well, yes, but it’s only three in the afternoon,” Artemis says. “Why don’t you just come up to the suite and say hello to Butler? I won’t be very long.”

Juliet’s out of the taxi before Artemis even moves, and Holly hastens to follow.

(“He’s staying in the Ty Warner Penthouse Suite,” Juliet say to Holly in a low tone.

“So?”

“Holly, that suite is seventy five thousand dollars a _night_ , and you damn well better believe I want to see it.”)

Naturally, the suite is extravagantly luxurious. Holly feels like she should take her shoes off, or something, but Artemis doesn’t, so she doesn’t.

“Had an accident?” Butler says from his plush armchair seat by the wall to wall window, reading the newspaper. He’s wearing thick fluffy slippers with his suit and there’s a small glass of brandy. The picture of self care.

“I’m going to change,” Artemis grumbles, and disappears down the hall.

“He slipped and fell in a mud puddle,” Juliet says in a tone completely lacking in sympathy.

“It happens to the best of us,” Butler replies, but there’s a little smile in the corner of his mouth. Holly finds she really quite likes the man.

Juliet takes a seat next to her brother, kicking off her sneakers and curling up on the couch. “Was Mulch nice to you?” she asks. “He better have been, or I’ll be having words with him.”

“Mr. Diggums was the epitome of professionalism,” Butler says in a tone so dry the Sahara Desert seems like a waterpark by comparison, and Holly laughs. “How was your morning?”

“Pretty chill. I brought you a croissant,” Juliet adds, and hands him the slightly crumpled bag. Butler takes out half a crushed croissant. In his hands, it looks like a miniature you’d find in a dollhouse.

“Your thoughtfulness knows no bounds,” he says solemnly, and puts the entire thing in his mouth.

“You should come get dinner with us,” Juliet tells him. “We’re taking Artemis to our favourite pizza place tonight. They do a killer pepperoni.”

“Is Artemis really so insufferable?” Butler says in a tone almost close to teasing.

“Nah, I just miss my big bro,” Juliet says, patting his shaven dome, and Butler melts like a popsicle.

“Well,” he says gruffly. “I suppose I could join you.”

They chat for a while about musicals (who’d have known Butler was an aficionado?) and Holly, curious as ever, looks around the Four Season’s most expensive suite.

Sometimes, Holly thinks that luxury hits a visual plateau at a certain point. She’s stayed at five star hotels before (being a part of the NYCB has its occasional perks) and this suite only looks a _little_ better. Like, a six star hotel, maybe. That being said, Holly will openly admit she can’t tell the difference between real and fake handbags, so...

The view is gorgeous, though, and the entire suite is wired with a smart system. She’s toying with the main terminal for it in the hallway (the fridge starts playing _Superstitious_ by Stevie Wonder) when Artemis swears loudly from one of the rooms and his door slides open with a bang. She can hear Juliet and Butler’s conversation stop.

“Butler, why on _earth_ did you-”

He stops, staring at her. He’s got a towel wrapped around his waist, and he’s clearly just gotten out of the shower, sopping wet. Holly realises his room is completely dark. Oops.

“Ms. Short,” he says.

“Sorry,” she says. “I was just toying with the smart system.”

“That’s quite alright,” he says in a small voice. He looks at himself, and then at her, and quite unexplainably, puts a hand over his chest. Oh my God, Holly thinks, _he’s protecting his modesty._

“Excuse me,” he says, and disappears back into his room. Juliet, who has seen the whole thing from the lounge-room, starts howling with laughter.

(He has a surprisingly nice body, lean muscle, a little bit of chest hair. Holly thinks she wouldn’t object to seeing it again. Oops.)

-

Artemis is mortified the rest of the day. Between the mud and him _yelling_ at her, _naked_ , he rather suspects that if Butler weren’t there, imposing and solemn, Juliet would be roasting him rather savagely. Thank _God_ for Butler.

Once he recovers from the embarrassment, he puts on a very nice shirt and a very nice suit and tries to reassert that he is a bona fide genius and Mature Man. Of course, this means at _Haven_ , he looks incredibly out of place.

“They probably think you’re a celebrity,” Juliet says after the third time a restaurant patron overtly just stares at their table.

“You don’t have any enemies I should know about, do you, Artemis?” Butler says, and Holly laughs but Artemis knows Butler is serious (and with good reason, to be fair. Most people don’t spend their childhood robbing banks and upsetting the Russian mafia.)

“Not in New York,” he says, helping himself to another piece of pizza. It’s oily, and cheesy, and quite delicious. “I suppose being a handsome man in a handsome suit seems to cause enough for attention.”

“I think it’s Butler, to be fair,” Holly says, and they all have to concede it probably _is_ the hulking Eurasian man who looks like he’s a member of the secret service, sitting on a cheap wooden stool several sizes too small.

“This pizza is delicious,” Butler says, “But I suspect I’ll be needing to make use of the hotel gym afterwards.”

“There’s nothing better than a slice at _Haven_ ,” Juliet says reverently. “It’s tradition.”

“Tradition?” Artemis asks, blotting his mouth with a serviette.

“Yeah,” Holly says, and he turns his gaze to her. He’s not sure how, but she makes eating a pizza look like a work of art. “We always come here with the other soloists at the end of a season. Or if there’s good news.”

“Or if Chix breaks up with a girlfriend,” Juliet says. “So we come here a lot- oh _fuck_.”

“What?” Butler says, immediately on alert, and Artemis sees his hand moving to his gun.

“Opal,” Juliet says, and Holly groans and Artemis suddenly wonders if his long forgotten favours with the local mafia would still hold any clout.

“Artemis,” Opal drawls, a hand landing on his shoulder. “My, what on earth are _you_ doing here? I have to wonder if you’re following me.”

“You two know each other?” Juliet says in surprise.

“Not personally,” he says distastefully, trying brushing her hand off. Her fingers are vice like, and it’s _very_ uncomfortable.

“Can we help you?” Butler says very pointedly. Opal gives him a look, and perhaps seeing how he could literally throw her through a window like a frisbee, removes her hand from Artemis’s person.

“I was just stopping by to get a slice,” she says with a fake, girly laugh. “Holly, my sincere congratulations on your promotion.”

“Thank you,” Holly says coolly. “It’s been a long time coming.”

“Not long enough,” Opal says, examining her nails. “You’ve got quite a lot to live up to. Are you _really_ sure you should be having pizza? Trouble’s used to lifting someone a little smaller than you, after all.”

Artemis bristles, but Holly just smiles.

“If he can lift someone with a head as big as yours, Opal, I don’t think I have much to worry about.”

Opal’s fake smile turns nasty, but before she can retort, Butler clears his throat, and she harrumphs and steps away.

“Yes, well, I’m sure pretty boy here agrees with me, fat needing to be trimmed and all that.”

Artemis closes his eyes, because he can see recognition in Holly’s eyes, but before it becomes realisation, two identical men come through the door.

“Oh,” one says. “Hello Holly. Juliet.”

“We’re double parked, Opal,” the other says.

“Don’t worry, boys. We’ll be getting dinner somewhere else,” Opal says. “ _Haven’s_ a bit too dirty for me tonight. Arty, _so_ nice seeing you again. Make sure not to walk down any dark alleys, and all that.”

And then she swans out.

“God, she’s a bitch,” Juliet says. “Her and her fat fucking head, I swear to God. Her face though when she saw you Butler, that was _beautiful._ Artemis, when the hell did you have the misfortune to see her? What the hell was she talking about?”

“I had a run in with Minerva a few nights ago,” he says darkly. “Apparently they’re dating. Which is as delightful a thing to be subjected to as you can imagine.”

“Yikes,” Juliet says, and Artemis thinks that summarises it quite well. He risks a glance at Holly, and she’s looking at him thoughtfully, which is not at _all_ what he wants to see.

“Well, lets not let the effervescent Ms. Koboi spoil our evening,” he says bracingly, and picks up his wine glass (filled with a surprisingly lovely rosé). “A toast to the NYCB, and to Holly’s well deserved recognition.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Juliet says even as she’s giving Artemis a sly wink, and Holly laughs, a sound he has never been more glad to hear.

“Hear hear,” Holly says.

They all clink their glasses, and as Artemis sips from his, he knows he’s going to have to tell her tonight. His insides writhe at the thought. But Artemis isn’t an arrogant child content to manipulate, anymore. When he was younger, this would have been a cut and dry problem; don’t tell her, and if she discovers him, _lie_.

But his father, who had quite a change of heart upon his timely rescue, had managed to stamp most of this behaviour out of him, a development quickened by suddenly having two impressionable young brothers to care for, and cemented by realising being on the end of this sort of behaviour in a relationship is not an enjoyable experience. So as tempting as it is to take the easy way out, when Butler goes to pay the bill, and Juliet goes to the bathroom, he turns to Holly.

“Ms. Short,” he says.

“Yeah?” she replies absently, putting her phone in her bag.

“Would you accompany me to get a coffee?”

Holly looks at him in surprise. “Coffee?”

“I am. That is to say. I was thinking that perhaps Juliet may want to spend some time alone with her brother.”

“And what would that have to do with us getting coffee?” Holly says innocently, but there’s a twinkle in her eye and Artemis is really going to have to spell this out, isn’t he.

“We don’t have to get coffee, necessarily,” he says awkwardly. “I quite enjoy your company, I would be content to just walk with you-”

“Are you asking me on a date, Mud Boy?” Holly grins.

“I’m trying to,” he admits. “But a friendly conversation over a drink would be just as lovely,” he adds hastily, very aware that the evening could turn _very_ sour.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay, let’s go get a coffee,” Holly says, and Artemis’s heart clenches. It clenches all the way out of the restaurant and up the street, through his coffee order and until they’re sitting in a little booth in the corner. Artemis idly wonders if he should call this entire thing off and go to the emergency department and demand to see a cardiologist.

“I’m surprised,” Holly says, stirring some sugar into her latte.

“How so?” he manages.

“Well, when Juliet was being all mysterious about you, I kind of thought you were going to be this stuck up businessman in his forties, or something. Not- this,” Holly says, gesturing at him.

“This?” Artemis says, repeating the gesture. “And what does that mean, Ms. Short?”

“You know,” she grumbles.

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

“You know- young, attractive, old money, all that. The suits are the only thing that fit my expectations,” she adds. She thinks he’s attractive. She thinks he’s _attractive_.

“Ms. Short,” he says hesitantly.

“I have a first name,” Holly reminds him with a grin.

“Ms. Short,” he says, again, “I have to apologise to you.”

“For what? The coffee? It’s not great, but I’m sure I can forgive you.”

“As awful as the coffee is, I wish it were so,” he says. God, does she have to look so lovely? His carefully prepared speech he came up with on the way over is suddenly forgotten, and he’s scrambling with how to proceed. “Ms. Short, do you read the New York Times?”

She frowns. “Uh, I guess?”

“Well, a while ago, I submitted a review to be published-” he begins, and a shadow falls over the two of them.

“Artemis Fowl,” Jon Spiro says, and isn’t New York meant to be _big_? Of all the places and all the times-

“Mr. Spiro,” Artemis says with a pained smile.

“Fowl?” Holly says to Artemis. “Your surname is Fowl?”

“Fowl by name and foul by nature,” Spiro says with a laugh, and Artemis can pinpoint the _moment_ Holly realises, the way her brows knit and she stares at him in a hurt that verges very quickly into anger.

“You may have won that patent, Fowl, but I’ll get you back one of these days,” Spiro is saying, wagging his fat finger at him, and Artemis isn’t a person inclined to violence but he’s struck with the vicious desire to punch the man.

“Yes, I’m sure,” Artemis says. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Spiro-”

“Who’s your lady friend?” Spiro says, ignoring him.

“You published that review, didn’t you?” Holly says, ignoring Spiro in turn, her jaw set furious.

“Well, there’s no need to be rude, miss,” Spiro laughs, and Holly turns to him.

“I don’t remember asking for your opinion,” she says. “I’m kind of busy right now, do you mind?”

Spiro wolf whistles, puts his hands up in surrender, but Holly is already looking back at Artemis.

“What was it you wrote, again?” Holly asks, and her voice is trembling with anger. Artemis wants to die, then and there. He wants the earth to swallow him whole. “About me being well past my prime?”

“That’s not- I didn’t-”

“The fucking _nerve_ of you,” she says, lifting her chin. “I don’t care how much money you have, or how smart you are, Mud Boy, you’re an arrogant piece of _shit_.”

And then she leaves. Artemis watches her go, frozen to his seat.

“Wow,” Spiro says. “She’s a fiery one, huh? I bet she’s something in bed.”

“Oh, fuck off, Spiro,” Artemis says, and then takes off after her. She’s halfway down the street, walking like a woman possessed, and he has to jog to catch up.

“Ms. Short- please, let me explain-”

“Does Juliet know?” Holly says, refusing to look at him.

“I- no, I-”

“I suppose you thought this was a laugh, a big _joke_ ?” Holly snaps. “Spewing that vitriol and then pretending you admire me? What game are you playing, here? You have no fucking idea how hard I’ve worked to get where I am, _past_ my _prime_ , I’m just hitting my stride-”

“It wasn’t like that,” he says desperately. “I didn’t mean it-”

“Oh? My apologies, _clearly_ me and _all_ the dancers at the NYCB misunderstood,” she says loudly. “My God, how _stupid_ we are-”

“It’s not like that,” he says, backtracking.

“Then what _is_ it like, Fowl?” Holly says, suddenly stopping him, and her use of his surname is like being drenched with cold water. She comes up to his shoulder, but at the moment, Artemis is genuinely concerned she might knock him out. “Let me tell you how it looks to _me._ It looks to me like you were up in your ivory tower and decided it would be fun to write a rotten review of an art form that takes a lifetime to master, even though you’ve never done more than an awkward high-school two step with whatever unfortunate person you took to prom.”

“I- they removed the review,” he says quickly. “I made sure of it, it was removed yesterday-”

“Oh, _now_ I understand!” Holly laughs. “You met one of the dancers you hung out to dry, and you got a case of the _guilts_.”

“Yes- no, I already felt bad before I met you-”

“Good,” she says. “You _should_ feel bad.”

“Ms. Short,” he says, now getting annoyed at her constant interruption, at her determination to be disagreeable, “I have already expressed my sincere apologies and regret to you.”

“Really? Because all I’m hearing is excuses from a coward who didn’t take ownership of his opinion when he came face to face with the subject of his derision,” Holly spits.

“What on earth do you think I brought you to that coffee shop for?” he demands. “I was _literally_ expressing my apology before that imbecile interrupted us!”   
“I was under the impression that we were on a date,” Holly sneers.

“So was I,” Artemis says icily. “And I was attempting to clear the air and rectify my wrongs before we got any further. But _clearly_ you would never be interested in a coward such as myself, Ms. Short, so forgive me for troubling you. I’ll return to my ivory tower. I wish you the best of luck with the upcoming season.”

“Fuck you, Fowl,” Holly spits, and leaves him standing there.

Artemis stands there, watching her go, and then calls Butler. When the Tesla pulls up twenty minutes later, he silently gets in, and doesn’t answer a single one of Butler’s questions. Juliet calls him two hours later, and he doesn’t answer. He spends his final day in New York holed up in his room, working on the project with Zito, and then the day after, he’s in France.

And of course, the entire time, he’s thinking about Holly Short.


	2. Act Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i really got no excuse for how late this is dkljsskldks enjoy the drama (TM)

Stepping off the street and into the studio, the warm air hits her like a delicious brick to the face, a physical impact in her lungs, and Holly lets out a long exhale.

“My tits are about to fall off,” Juliet says cheerfully, pulling off her beanie. 

“Thanks, Jules,” Trouble says from where he’s stretching on the barre, and Chix barks out a laugh. 

Holly shoves her bag in the little shelves they have set up, takes off her shoes and coat. Opal, who’s loitering and examining a pimple in a little handheld mirror, shoots her a disdainful look.

“Hey, Vishby,” Trouble says, and Vishal Petrovich Ivanov ignores him, prancing through his warm up rises. “I didn’t know you were with the soloists this year.”

“Root approved me bringing a few more people into the mix,” No. 1 says, coming over with a laptop. “Jumping jacks, guys,” He adds, and Holly and Juliet obediently fall in line with Chix. Opal is clearly unwilling to follow orders from No.1 but she isn’t stupid enough to make a big fuss, settling for a pinched, unimpressed expression.

“She looks like she needs to take a shit,” Juliet says in a low voice, and Holly coughs. 

No.1 runs all the soloists (even Billy Kong, who Holly thought was still recovering from his grotesque dental issues) through an intense warm up, the first official one of their pre-season practice, and as they’re doing stretches and breathing through positions, No.1 busies himself with connecting his laptop to the projector and sound system.

“So, I’ve been working on this for the last year or so,” he begins excitedly from the desk in the corner. “It’s not what we usually do, but Root agreed with me that we should try something new this season.”

Bold, Holly thinks, but bold is good, bold is  _ interesting _ , and No.1 may be fresh at the choreo game but he’s observant, naturally talented. She’s seen him watching dance videos in his lunch breaks, knows he goes to almost every class the NYCB runs just to watch the choreographers and teachers in action. 

“So what have you got for us, No.1?” Grub says, looking faintly concerned. “Please tell me I’ve got something good-”

“Everyone’s got something good,” No.1 says with an awkward laugh, and Trouble elbows Grub. “Because this season,” he continues, looking much brighter, “We’re doing  _ Alice in Wonderland.” _

__ Silence, until Opal snorts; from the corner of her eye, Holly can see Grub sag. Admittedly, it’s not what she was expecting, but Holly has faith in No.1, and makes sure to smile widely at him. 

“Buck wild,” Juliet says loudly. “I love it.”

No.1 looks at her gratefully. “I know it’s different, but I have everything choreographed and ready to go. The orchestra even sent me recordings of the music yesterday, so I thought we’d give it a listen and I’d walk you guys through everything.”

A wise move, Holly thinks; this is exactly how Qwan starts every season, and even as No.1 presses  _ play _ , everyone seems noticeably more relaxed.

The music itself is also not what Holly expected. It’s classically styled, yes, but it’s playful, too. Almost jazzy in some parts, lively and vibrant, and Holly is instantly sold.

“It’s very…  _ modern _ ,” Opal says distastefully to one of the Brills brothers, and luckily, No.1 doesn’t hear.

“So, we’ll start out with everyone off stage,” No.1 begins, and they watch as he takes first position.

-

He’s replaying it in his head, even as he stands on the balcony with a magnificent view, a room full of his esteemed peers behind him. Artemis is once again recalling Holly’s fury and disdain, and even as his cool anger stirs, it is overwhelmed by regret. He’s trying to hold those precious lovely moments with her close to his heart, but all he can see is her, red faced and angry.

_ Fuck you, Fowl. _

_ Fuck me indeed _ , Artemis thinks, rubbing his eyes. It’s been over two weeks, and he still can’t stop thinking about her.

Ridiculous.

“Did you come here alone?”

Artemis looks up from the view at the woman standing before him. One of the representatives from Italy, a Ms. Emma Bianchi from Naples, in a stunning red gown. Her English is flawless, but he relishes the opportunity to brush up on any of the multiple languages he speaks, so he switches to the Neapolitan dialect.

“I don’t mind my own company,” he says pleasantly. She doesn’t need to know that Butler is on standby dressed as a common security guard if something goes wrong. “Ms. Bianchi, if I remember correctly?”

“Correct, Mr. Fowl,” she says magnanimously, offering her hand. Elegantly manicured, and the slight rasp of an engineer’s calluses. He shakes it, smiling at her. “The work you are doing with Mr. Zito is very impressive.”

“It is necessary,” Artemis says humbly. He’s been feeling humble for a few weeks now. “I must say, your solar panels are just as interesting.”

“It is necessary,” she says playfully, and Artemis smiles. “I have to admit, I don’t meet many handsome young men at these events. May I be so bold as to keep you company for a while?”

Ms. Bianchi can’t be more than twenty eight herself, and as she gives him a long, slow smile, it’s obvious she doesn’t mean just for the duration of this dinner. Artemis considers it. 

She’s a very attractive woman; long black hair, plump curves, a bright and intelligent face. He also hasn’t had sex for a while, and he is admittedly curious to see what it’s like with someone who isn’t Minerva. Perhaps it would put those disastrous few days in New York out of his mind, put  _ her _ out of his mind.

So he goes back to her hotel with her; unzips her dress, runs his fingers through her hair, kisses her, learns her. It’s certainly educational, certainly enjoyable, but her moans don’t set his heart racing like Holly’s laughter, her eyes don’t pull the breath from him like Holly’s.

Stop  _ thinking about her, _ he thinks desperately he tastes her, forces himself into the present, where he exists between Ms. Bianchi’s legs. It works until she repays the favour later, wrapping her lips around him. His eyes roll into the back of his head, and when he snakes a hand through her hair, it’s too long and too soft. 

They fuck (if it was sex with Minerva, it’s fucking with Ms. Bianchi) for several hours, and even when he’s buried inside her, his satisfaction is purely physical, and Holly Short is plaguing him the entire time.

The next morning, as Artemis pulls on his shirt, Ms. Bianchi watches him with amused eyes.

“Going so soon?” she teases.

“Time stops for no man,” Artemis says. “My apologies, Ms. Bianchi.”

“I’m sure I will survive,” she says, languid and honest, and Artemis is rather sure she will, too. She does not at  _ all _ look bothered by his impending absence, which is a relief as much as it is a bruise to his ego. 

“I’ll see you at the next summit, perhaps,” Ms. Bianchi says, breaking him out of his thoughts.

“Perhaps,” he allows. “It was a pleasure meeting you. I wish you the best of luck with your work.”

“And I you,” she says graciously. “I hope you find whoever it is you’re looking for.”

Well, Artemis thinks as he steps into the wintry air, that’s not the problem, really. 

Butler is waiting in the car, and Artemis climbs in.

“Next time,” Butler says disapprovingly, “I’d appreciate you telling me you’re having a one night stand  _ before _ I spend half the evening looking for you.”

“Apologies, Butler,” Artemis says, appropriately chastised.

Butler grunts. “Was it worth it?”

Artemis looks out the window. “Not especially,” he admits.

“You know,” Butler says as he pulls out of the hotel’s driveway. “Juliet rang me today.”

“Is that so?” Artemis says, snapping to attention. “How is she?”

A few days after The Argument, Artemis had gathered his courage and rung Juliet. The first ten minutes involved her yelling at him (“Artemis Fowl, you arrogant little shit!”), which was very fair. After she ran out of breath, Artemis had explained his side, and expressed his apologies, and Juliet had cooled down a little bit.

_ Well, Holly still hasn’t said anything to me, _ Juliet said.

_ I find that difficult to believe, _ Artemis replied.

_ Yeah, not my best lie. But I didn’t think you’d want me to recount her furious two hour rant. _

__ Artemis hasn’t rung her back yet. Mostly because the summit had been extremely busy, partly because even at the end of the call, Juliet had still been cool towards him. So he’s more than a little hopeful Juliet has warmed up.

(He tries not to think of Holly. She’ll probably never talk to him again, and he just has to accept that.)

“She’s well,” Butler says as they pull up at a red light. “They’ve just begun rehearsals for their new season, apparently.”

Ah, of course. Artemis idly wonders what the performance will be. 

“She says Holly’s not mentioned you since your call,” Butler says.

“I’d be rather surprised if she had,” Artemis mumbles.

“As would I,” Butler muses. “Holly strikes me as a very passionate person.”

Artemis puts his face in his hands. “I should never have written that review,” Artemis sighs through his fingers.

“No, you shouldn’t have,” Butler says, not unkindly. “Perhaps Holly will be more forgiving in time. In the meantime, shall we have a champagne brunch?”

“Ah, Butler,” Artemis says. “You always know just what to say.”

-

It’s a Monday morning, their one day off now the season has started, and Holly is laying on the couch reading the newspaper as it rains outside. The sound is gentle, mingling with the sounds of the city, the smell of coffee and toast still lingering in the house. Overall, Holly is extremely comfortable. She’s seeing Vinyaya for her weekly appointment this afternoon, and then to Mulch for follow ups on her lower back pain. But for now, she’s warm and content to flip through the paper.

She finishes the article she’s reading about plans to renovate an old arts hall in Brooklyn, and then turns the page-

_ ZITO & FOWL SUCCESSFULLY PITCH CLEAN POWER PLANS _ , the headline says, and there’s a picture of Fowl and an older man with long curly pepper and salt hair giving a presentation. Holly’s nose crinkles. Fowl’s wearing a very sleek business suit, none of that rich vintage he seemed so comfortable in when she saw him, and even in flat dimensions, his mismatched eyes grab her by the breastbone.

She can still recall with perfect clarity how he had looked before she walked away; angry, frustrated, all traces of embarrassment and shame gone. Holly had wanted to punch him, cut herself on those perfect cheekbones. To think she was actually- that she was considering-

Holly tosses the newspaper onto the coffee table and crosses her arms, stares at the window. Everytime she thinks she’s finally over the asshole’s behaviour, something reminds her of him and that damned review, and then she’s furious all over again, stamping everywhere and slamming things and muttering things like, “Show  _ you _ a  _ coupe _ ,” or, “Stupid  _ fucking _ -”. 

(She had heard Juliet yelling at him on the phone. It had felt very satisfying.)

Of course, her and Juliet haven’t talked about it past Holly’s initial rant upon returning home that night. Juliet knows after several years of friendship that once Holly’s talked about it, she doesn’t want to talk about it again until all the anger is gone. She likes to let it pass her by, let it fade into the past. Until then, Juliet just pretends not to notice the occasional loud noises and mumbled swears. It’s worked in the past, after all.

Unfortunately, it isn’t quite working now, as Vinyaya finds out that afternoon.

“So, how have you been, Holly?” she says with a smile. “I hear congratulations are in order.”

Holly sits down on the comfy leather armchair and looks at her performance psychologist. Vinyaya was the first black soloist with the the NYCB, but she never made it to principal. So Vinyaya  _ gets _ Holly, gets what she goes through, and understands in a way no-one else ever will how incredible Holly’s achievement is.

Holly should be overjoyed, should be talking nonstop to her about it, and instead, she’s grumpy and frustrated. So Vinyaya, who is  _ not _ Juliet and is being  _ paid _ to talk to Holly about things that bother her, is abruptly subjected to a blow-by-blow account of the cumulated forty eight hours that still have Holly in a fury two weeks later.

Vinyaya is well acquainted with Angry Holly, and so she sits there and listens and doesn’t say a word as Holly spends half of their hour being mad. Once Holly’s finished, Vinyaya regards her calmly. 

“Yes, I read that review,” she says mildly. “It was extremely unkind.”

“That’s an understatement,” Holly mutters.

“It seems that he did indeed regret his actions, though,” Vinyaya says. 

“But he was an  _ asshole _ ,” Holly says.

“Oh, I don’t disagree,” Vinyaya smiles. “Holly, I have to say- I’ve never seen you this angry over a bad review  _ or _ a romantic partner before.”

“He wasn’t a romantic partner,” Holly says quickly. 

“A prospective one, then,” Vinyaya points out, and Holly makes a face. “Why are you so fixated on someone you barely knew, especially when they were so rude to you?”

“I don’t know,” Holly says in frustration. “Isn’t that  _ your _ job?”

Vinyaya gives her a patient look, and Holly huffs.

“Sorry,” she says.

“You’ve said far worse,” Vinyaya says graciously.

“It’s just- I actually  _ liked _ him,” Holly says. “I haven’t been interested in anyone for  _ ages _ , and he comes along-”

She falters. 

( _ And he was interesting and funny and handsome and in that review he ripped me apart like he knew my weaknesses and I can’t- it doesn’t matter how sorry he is-) _

“And?” Vinaya prompts, and Holly rubs her eyes.

“I don’t know,” she says. “Why don’t we talk about something else. I’m sick of wasting my thoughts on him.”

“Alright,” Vinyaya says, and they go on to talk about her thoughts about the upcoming season, but she  _ knows _ Vinyaya won’t let it go quite that easy.

Mulch, meanwhile, as he carefully prods her lower back, isn’t quite so accommodating.

“Heard you nearly knocked a guy out a few weeks ago,” he says with a toothy grin barely visible through his immensely bushy beard, and Holly rolls her eyes.

“Juliet’s already had her appointment, huh?” Holly mumbles into the rounded head cushion.

“Yep,” he says, kneading gently into a particularly tight spot that has Holly squirming. 

“I’ve never met someone so punchable in my life,” she says.

“Juliet, or this Arty kid?”

“Arty-  _ Fowl _ ,” she corrects herself quickly. (Though if Juliet’s gossiping Holly might think about hitting her as well.)

“I felt the same way about Doodah,” Mulch says dreamily. “Look at this piece of shit, I thought to myself. Funny how things turn out.”

“Is this your way of saying I should give Fowl a second chance?” Holly says in disbelief.

“Christ, no,” Mulch says. “The guy sounds like a rotten asshole. I just like talking about my husband.”

“Me and your entire clientbase is aware, Mulch,” Holly says.

“I  _ am _ surprised, though,” Mulch says, and Holly yelps when he applies pressure to a painful spot on her right butt cheek. “Juliet’s brother seems like a decent guy. Would have thought the kid he essentially raised would be a bit nicer.”

“I mean, he  _ did _ apologise,” Holly says reluctantly. “And he tried to explain himself, I guess.”

“He must have been  _ very _ handsome to have Holly Short so conflicted,” Mulch comments slyly. 

“He was alright,” she says defensively. “The best he looked was when he was covered in mud.”

“Hah,” Mulch says. “Mud Boy.”

“Exactly,” Holly says.

(Actually, the best he looked was naked and embarrassed in front of her, and she refuses to let that thought continue any further.)

-

It’s a cold night in Fowl Manor. Between the rain lashing the windows and the notable absence of his younger brothers (currently on a school trip in Seoul), Artemis is lonely once again.

He attempts to relieve this by listening to his favourite symphonies, which doesn’t work. Then he tries to relax by reading a book and having a glass of wine, which doesn’t work. 

(He wishes he was back in that greasy pizza diner with Juliet. With-)

( _ No, no, no, enough, Artemis.) _

His parents are out for dinner. Butler is very comfortably situated in the living room by the fireplace watching reruns of old rom-coms, and Artemis doesn’t want to disturb him. So he sits in his study, trying to work on a paper he’s been meaning to finish for a few months now. After a while, he sinks into it, and manages to pass several hours until his shoulders begin protesting hunching over and his eyes begin to ache from intently staring at the data he’s compiled.

_ Time for a bath _ , he thinks. He only has a bath when he’s in a particularly bad mood, and he is in a particularly bad mood right now. The hot water does the trick; lying there, he closes his eyes and lets his thoughts roam where they may.

Artemis has no real plans for the next few months now that Zito has taken over the project for now (a lot of administration must be done before Artemis has anything to do again). He toys with the idea of going to China for a few weeks by invitation of the aerospace engineering department at Peking University. Didn’t he say to her that rocket science was next on the list, after all?

And now he’s thinking of Holly again, thinking of her angry at him, thinking of her sweaty and elegant, and-

When Artemis realises he’s hard, he sighs, and stands up, drains the bath; if he’s going to be this pathetic, he’s not going to do it sitting in his own diluted bodily liquids, for God’s sake. So he has a shower (and is embarrassingly loud when he thinks about Holly on top of him, salt of her sweaty skin between his teeth) and then washes himself off and retires to bed.

He lays there, enjoying the softness of the bed and the comforting heaviness of his duvet, listening to the rain as he decides he should probably check on his Facebook feed.

The first thing that pops up is a post from Juliet. A video, in fact.

_ workin hard or hardly workin lmao _ is the caption, and tagged in the video among three other names is one Holly Short.

Artemis presses play, of course. What else is he supposed to do, presented with this opportunity? 

Holly and a tall, handsome dancer (Nathan Kelp, he believes) are practicing an excerpt of what he assumes is from the upcoming season.

“Yes, Holly! Get it! Get that bread!” Juliet yells, as Kelp scoops Holly into a perfect lift that has her on his shoulder, an arm outstretched away as her right leg extends gracefully. The arches of her hold his heart tight, the wind knocked out of him.

Kelp turns, revealing Holly giving Juliet the finger and a wink, and the screen shakes as Juliet laughs, and another dancer -Artemis thinks it may be Adam Verbil- joins in on the other side of the room. The video ends there, with Holly’s exertion-flushed amused face meeting Artemis’s eyes, and he looks at it for a long, long time before he hesitantly presses the thumbs up option on it, then locks his phone and going to sleep.

-

Juliet is surprised when she sees Artemis has liked the video. While her surprise is admittedly in part to the fact she forgot he actually has a Facebook account, it’s mainly because it’s  _ Artemis _ . In the years she’s known him, she can recall two times he liked a post of hers on social media. Once when she announced her promotion to soloist, and once when she announced she had been given the principal role (the last time anyone before Opal had it for several years straight). 

Interesting.

So, Juliet does a little experiment. She posts a few generic things (memes and articles alike) across the next couple of days. Nothing from Artemis, of course, and she can see from his messenger status he’s been online once a day each day (and considering he usually logs into Facebook once a month, holy shit) and then at the end of the week, she shares  _ another _ video. 

This one is of her and Holly at the market, buying some fresh produce. Holly is minding her own business, comparing two pumpkins, and Juliet films her reaction when she tells Holly a stupid pumpkin pun based joke, and then she posts it without even tagging Holly in it.

(Artemis likes it literally minutes after, even as Holly pays the vendor, and Juliet grins.)

( _ Very _ interesting.)

And then, Juliet comments on the video,  _ @Holly Short just doesn’t get my jokes! _

__ The comment is irrelevant, but now she  _ knows _ Holly will check it, and, well, Juliet should probably be a bit less nosey but Holly’s been grumpy for nearly three weeks and a blind man could have seen how the two of them looked at each other before it went to shit.  _ Someone _ has to do something, and Dom neither uses Facebook or is good at meddling, so it’s all up to Juliet. 

They’ll thank her for it, she can just  _ tell. _

-

When she sees Juliet has tagged her in a video, she rolls her eyes and checks, of course, ready to write something sassy about that dumbass pumpkin joke. She’s running possible quips through her mind when she sees-

Oh. Artemis Fowl has liked the video.

She stares at that for a little bit. Juliet doesn’t notice, busy on her own phone and with a bag of fruit. Holly taps on his name and it comes up with his profile. Sparse, clearly rarely used, without a single post on it. His profile picture looks a little younger than she remembers him, in the middle of giving some sort of presentation, but his eyes are the same.

She doesn’t know why she’s so bothered by this- God, why is she even on his profile, anyway? Holly locks her phone defiantly. Why would he like the video? It has to be a power move, right? There’s no other possible reason he would like the video, he  _ clearly _ hardly uses Facebook, he’s just trying to be a  _ dick _ , trying to get the last word over her.

_ Asshole _ , she seethes, and doesn’t go on Facebook for a very long two days. 

-

Artemis spends three days drafting the message. He thinks over every possible angle as he reads a book, as he makes use of the Manor’s indoor pool, as he has a late night piece of cake. Artemis Fowl has published over forty academic papers in various fields, he has given numerous presentations, he has written several novels (all published under various aliases). The written word is one of the mightiest tools he wields.

So he is extremely disappointed in himself when the message he sends to Holly is three words long.

_ Hello, Ms. Short. _

__ Pressing the send button is not unlike the way Artemis felt when he submitted his first dissertation; his mind is still and calm but his heart is racing, his palms are clammy, a biological betrayal. Also much like after submitting that dissertation, he is checking his phone for notifications every couple of minutes.

Holly opens the message thirty minutes later, but doesn’t respond. His heart sinks into his stomach, and he bravely soldiers on through the rest of the day by sitting aimlessly in his armchair and thinking over every single mistake he has ever made in his life. In alphabetic order. 

She responds thirty six hours later; the notification noise startles him awake in the middle of the night, and he scrambles for the phone.

The message is almost as short as his.

_ what do u want, fowl? _

__ It’s been over a month since he left New York. Is she still as furious as she was that night?

God, he doesn’t know what to say to her. 

( _ I’ve been thinking about you every day since I left America.) _

_ (Can we try that date again?) _

_ (Are you as passionate a lover as you are a fighter?) _

__ In the end, he decides perhaps he should be a little less… eager.

_ I was hoping I could once again express my sincerest apologies for my behaviour, _ he replies about fifteen minutes later. She responds almost immediately.

_ hope all u want _

__ He stares at the words. Clearly, Holly is still angry with him.

_ Ms. Short, _ he tries _ , writing and publishing that behaviour was abhorrent and disrespectful not only to you but every other person who worked so hard on that performance. I understand and respect your anger towards me, and I apologise for my actions. _

__ Holly sees it, but doesn’t reply immediately. He stares into the darkness of his room until his phone vibrates once more.

_ what do u want, mud boy? a medal? _

__ Artemis clenches his jaw, forces himself not to reply sharply, like he wants to. He counts to fifty instead.

_ I wanted to extend an olive branch. A peace offering.  _

__ Her response is quick:  _ i don’t like olives _

__ _ I’d offer you a white handkerchief instead,  _ he replies,  _ but they’re disgustingly unhygienic. Jokes aside, Ms. Short, I very much respect and admire you as a performer, and as a potential friend - something I do not have many of. I would be exceedingly grateful if you were to give me another chance. _

__ This time, she doesn’t reply for several days.

Artemis, at this point, is prepared to give up.

-

“Well, what are you going to do?” Juliet asks. They’re sitting on the couch, snacking on some dried apricots while the TV plays in the background. Holly had initially hesitated to come to Juliet with this, had stewed on it for a few days, wrestling between her anger and the opportunity to let it go, and-

(and the way he had smiled at her, the way he had blushed at her, they way he said  _ Ms. Short-) _

__ “Fucked if I know,” Holly mutters. “I’m still pissed.”

“Yeah, that’s fair,” Juliet says, and returns to the grocery list on her phone. Holly waits for her to continue, and when she doesn’t, Holly frowns.

“That’s it?”

“What?” Juliet says.

“I expected some useful advice,” Holly says.

“You seem pretty set on hating his guts,” Juliet shrugs. “I’m not gonna invalidate you.”

“I just want your opinion,” Holly insists.

Juliet looks up at her. “Well, alright. Holly,” she says, and puts a hand on Holly’s shoulder. “I love you like a sister. But.”

“This sounds like the start of a call out…”

“Artemis is a good guy. Arrogant, annoying, but a good guy. One that made a stupid drunk mistake. Not an excuse,” Juliet adds when she sees Holly open her mouth. “Just important to remember. He since has had the article removed, and has gone out of his way to express his apologies to you. Which, by the way, is something he does once in a blue moon.”

“Well, I wasn’t the  _ only _ one affected by his review,” Holly retorts. 

Juliet shrugs, and turns back to the TV, abruptly disinterested. “Well, don’t message him again, I guess.”

Holly doesn’t.

Two days later, Artemis sends her a hyperlink that opens to an op-ed in the NY Times website.

_ In the Defense of the NYCB _ , it’s titled, and it’s a five thousand word essay detailing the accomplishments of not only the various dancers in the current troupe but also Foaly, Qwan, even  _ Root _ . She reads it once in disbelief, twice in shock, three times struggling with an inarticulate emotion that has her brows furrowed and her bottom lip chewed. There are references, embedded video files of from the NYCB’s official Youtube account, it’s like a fucking academic paper.

Holly’s section in the paper focuses on her dedication to form, to her achievement as the first black female principal. But there’s no way someone could accuse him of favouritism; he dedicates as much time to her as he does to Qwan. It’s undeniable he put  _ thought _ into this, and even if it is because of her, Holly is still reluctantly moved, and more than a little tickled pink that Opal is overtly mentioned not  _ once _ .

It’s the concluding lines that she keeps returning to:

_ It is so very easy to write a harsh review; everyone loves a critic. My previous so called “review” (published in a fit of childish pique after a break-up) has amused many, most of whom would likely never have noticed these details had I not exposed them. This is why I must expose the other, far more important details that go unnoticed and unappreciated; that these performers, choreographers, technicians and directors are all admirable, talented people. They are not only worthy of our admiration, but our respect; I implore you to give it to them. Without the arts, the world would be an emptier place, a darker place. I will be booking my tickets at the upcoming season’s opening night. I hope you do the same. _

__ The article doesn’t go viral, of course (proving Fowl’s point, unfortunately). 

She sends him a friend request anyway.

-

Artemis can’t stop smiling for an entire twenty four hours after he accepts the friend request. He actually has a  _ spring _ in his step. He doesn’t message her immediately, of course; he takes his time to go through her Facebook profile, what she has  _ trusted _ him with. Truth be told, she doesn’t seem an especially avid user of it either; she shares a few articles, mainly about the ballet scene in New York, and there’s an assortment of photos she’s been tagged in, a few small albums she’s uploaded from various holidays (mainly scenery, speckled occasionally with other people). 

Her profile picture is a photo taken by someone else. Her hair looks a little bit longer, curling at the ends tightly. She’s holding a glass of white wine and laughing, her teeth bright white against the darkness of her skin. 

She’s beautiful. And she’s given him a second chance.

So after Artemis’s euphoria fades just enough for him to stop smiling like an absolute buffoon, he forces himself to reply to Mr. Guo’s email, organise his flights to Beijing, do his daily work out.

And then, finally, he sends her a message.

-

Opal watches Minerva with fascination from her place between her thighs. She’s screaming and Opal hasn’t even slid a finger inside her yet. The Frenchwoman is pitifully easy to fuck, to the point that Opal wonders if Fowl isn’t only an arrogant asshole, but a criminally incompetent lover as well. 

As Minerva reverts to her native French, Opal is thinking, thinking,  _ thinking,  _ (courtesy of Descant’s ever high quality amphetamines).

Sool had suddenly been struck with a case of the guilts before she even had his dick in her mouth, so he’s out of the picture. Apparently he and his wife have begun going to  _ marriage counselling _ . Opal rolls her eyes at the thought. It’s obvious to anyone with eyes that Sool’s wife is a cow shoved into spandex (and with about as much intelligence). Cudgeon, meanwhile, was enthusiastic about her lingerie and useless without Sool backing him up. 

_ Oh, Opal, you and I both know Short’s role as principal is just political correctness, it’ll last a season and then it will be back to you anyway! _

Yes, and her streak will have been  _ ruined _ , not to mention, the sheer gall, the sheer  _ disrespect. _

__ So Opal has given up her original dead end plan. If she can’t convince the board of directors that Short is a horrible choice likely to cause a dramatic drop in income, then she just has to  _ cause _ a dramatic drop in income.

Enter Gaspard Paradizo, who is the NYCB’s main patron and source of donations. Opal admits, when she maneuvered into this relationship with Minerva, she had certainly planned to take advantage of the family connection. But she had never expected it would end up being so  _ useful _ .

After Minerva’s thighs almost crush Opal’s skull, the two of them lay there together. Opal tenderly brushes Minerva’s disgusting sweaty hair from her forehead, kisses her unattractively blotchy cheek.

“Darling,” she says.

“Mm?” Minerva hums, eyes still closed.

“Why haven’t I met your father yet?”

Minerva looks guilty, and Opal capitulates on it.

“You  _ still _ haven’t told him?” Opal says, brows furrowing.

“I know, I know,” Minerva says. “I’m sorry, Opal. I’ll call him tomorrow, I promise.”

Opal just sighs, sitting up. As expected, Minerva reaches up and wraps a hand around her elbow.

“Opal,” Minerva pleads. “Sweetheart, please. I  _ promise _ .”

“I just want us to be a happy family,” Opal says. “Thank you, Minerva.”

“Of course,” Minerva smiles, and Opal holds back a grimace and lets the other woman hug her. She’s slick with sweat and smells  _ awful _ , and Opal is grinning into the side of Minerva’s neck the entire time.

Excellent.

-

_ What is your opinion of modern ballet versus classical ballet, Ms. Short? _

Holly doesn’t really know what she was expecting, to be honest. Fowl isn’t exactly the sort of guy who would send her a dick pic, after all. 

_ they’ve got their pros and cons, _ she replies guardedly.  _ why? _

_ I’m interested in your very well educated opinion, _ he says almost immediately, and, well, Holly isn’t immune to flattery. 

_ I enjoy dancing modern ballet more _ , she admits.  _ but classical will always hold a special place in my heart _

_ Why? _

_ my first ever performance was Cinderella _ , Holly says.  _ i was one of the mice. my mother was very proud of me. _

_ I’m sure she was _ , Fowl replies quickly.  _ Was that what sparked your interest in dance? _

He’s really not playing around, is he? Holly’s used to that to-and-fro of being interested but not  _ too _ interested, coded language and measured replies. But then, she thinks, Fowl did publish a twenty page article for her, and he doesn’t strike her as as a person who plays games.

_ yeah, _ she replies.  _ it was fun then and it’s fun now _

_ What are your plans once you eventually retire? Will you remain a part of the NYCB? _

Holly sits back on the couch. It’s a thought she doesn’t like to think about too much, in all honesty; the NYCB has been her home, her family. But she’s too impatient for choreography, and teaching doesn’t appeal to her. Every now and then she imagines taking Root’s place as one of the main directors, but it just makes her feet itch. 

_ i don’t know, _ she admits, uncomfortable, and changes the topic of conversation.  _ how is france? _

_ It was quite splendid _ , Fowl replies, and she wants to roll her eyes at how ridiculously unironic he is.  _ The presentation was well-received. My part in the project is largely done for now. _

_ so back to ireland…? _

_ I’ve already been and gone, _ Artemis says, and sends her a photo; a cityscape from what must be at least fifty floors up, familiar in its metropolis but unfamiliar in its shape, its architecture. She can barely see his reflection in the window, the outline of him.  _ I’m currently in Beijing. I did say rocket science was next on the list, after all. _

It’s stupid, but Holly had gotten so caught up in the anger of him that she forgot he was a multi-billionaire genius. Oops.

_ i still don’t know if you’re joking, _ she replies. 

_ I’m lecturing at Peking University tomorrow,  _ Fowl says, and even through text, the confidence of his message is staggering.  _ My Mandarin is a little rusty, but I’m sure it will be no problem.  _

_ of course you speak chinese, _ she replies, rolling her eyes.  _ is there anything you CAN’T do? _

_ If there is, I’ve yet to discover it, _ he says.  _ Well, with one exception. _

She grins.  _ oh? _

_ I’ve yet to leave a conversation with you without a smile on my face _ .

Holly stares at her phone.

_ I’m afraid I have to go, _ he adds.  _ But it’s been wonderful chatting with you, Ms. Short.  _

_ sure,  _ she replies, and (mostly habit, a little genuinely) writes,  _ ttyl _

_ I look forward to it. _

And then he’s gone.

Damn it. Now  _ she’s _ smiling.

-

Artemis spends his week in Beijing on autopilot. He gives his lectures, goes to several banquet dinners, indulges Butler on a trip to the Great Wall (Butler climbs to the top. Artemis takes the chair lift.) and submits a follow-up paper to his usual physics journal. He does all of these things with his usual poise and grace.

But when Holly replies to a message, and his phone vibrates mid lecture, his heart misses a beat. When he is giving a toast to the university and his hosts, he almost says how important river crabs are, rather than harmony, between their countries. When he is waiting for Butler on the Great Wall, he takes pictures (already a rare occurrence)- and sends them to  _ her _ .

Their conversations are initially light, polite, and Artemis pushes her. He despises small talk, he doesn’t want to waste their time. He asks her about her childhood (fine until her parents left her), her hobbies ( _ ballet _ , _ obviously, Fowl _ ) and her favourite music (surprisingly diverse, but she has a weakness for blues). It takes her a while to ask him similarly personal questions, but when she does, she is just as direct.

_ did your dad really get shot by the russian mafia? _

Of course she knows all about that, Artemis thinks wearily. Juliet is the biggest security hazard this side of the hemisphere. But Artemis tells her about everything, about his childhood crimes and his childhood problems, about his mother near catatonic with grief, about his father nearly dying in his arms. The message he sends her is so long it exceeds the character limit and he has to split it into several shorter messages. She takes half an hour to reply. It’s a harrowing half hour he spends at lunch with Butler in silence, until-

_ and i thought MY childhood was bad _ , she replies. Artemis smiles, relief and amusement. Holly has given him an inch, but he has taken a mile, but still she replies and grows warmer and warmer. 

_ What’s your favourite country?  _ Artemis asks her on his final night in China, sitting in the Beijing Peninsula Hotel’s exclusive wine bar. He’s sipping from a glass of their most expensive  _ baijiu _ and watching the city lights.  _ I do love Ireland, of course, but Italy comes a close second. _

It’s morning over in New York, so Holly replies promptly.

_ i’ve only been overseas for performances _ , she tells him.  _ so i’ve never really gone sightseeing. i really liked norway, though. i love NY, but it cant compare to the mountains and all that greenery. maybe i’ll go again after i retire _

_ I’d be delighted to take you, _ Artemis offers before he stops to consider how forward he’s being.

__ A long pause, one that has him worried.

_ are you asking me on a date, mud boy? _

Artemis stares at this for a very long time. Is she joking? Is she laughing? Is she offended? Is she angry?

(Is she flirting?)

_ Heavens, no,  _ he replies, opting for joking.  _ I thought your retirement was several years away? I don’t think I can wait that long. Besides, I wouldn’t take you to Norway for a first date _

_ but you’d take me to a shitty little coffee shop in downtown NY? _

__ Artemis’s heart is pounding. He can’t discern the tone of her words, so he opts for caution.

_ I am terribly sorry again,  _ he says.  _ For both my behaviour, and the coffee. _

_ lighten up, fowl, i was joking around lol _

He exhales and takes a sip of the  _ baijiu _ .

_ by the way, it would be our second date. not our first _

He chokes.

-

“Ah, not quite- fifth position,” No.1 corrects Opal. “Not fourth.”

“You said fourth,” Opal says in annoyance, and No.1 gives her a patient smile even as Holly rolls her eyes because he  _ definitely _ said fifth.

“Much better,” he says once she’s adjusted.

Holly and Trouble, meanwhile, are standing to her left as per the choreography, paused mid hold. No.1 unpauses the music, and they continue.

A month in to practice, now, and Holly is starting to feel the pressure like she’s never felt it before. It gets to the point where she almost actually understands why Opal is the way she is.

When it comes to their lift, Trouble has her securely. He doesn’t tremble once, his hands sure beneath her, but Holly knows her leg is off by just a fraction, and it haunts her for the rest of the day.

And when Holly isn’t practicing, she’s swimming, or watching back videos of her practice. Juliet is just as busy, but she still finds time to watch wrestling, still goes out with her non-ballet friends, and Holly envies her. But not hard enough to stop.

It’s funny, because Fowl becomes this source of - not strength, or relaxation, but he’s… engaging. Witty. Genuinely interested. 

_ i’m going to knock opal’s head off,  _ she tells him after one particularly painful practice where opal made a pointed remark about Holly’s  _ contretemps _ .

_ I don’t imagine it will be difficult,  _ Fowl replies.  _ It’s an awfully big target, after all. _

_ lmfao good point _

_ But I wouldn’t waste your energy on Ms. Koboi,  _ he continues.  _ She really is one of the most distasteful people I’ve ever met. I can’t believe Minerva is dating her. _

_ Maybe Opal’s really good in bed,  _ Holly grins, and then grimaces at the images  _ that _ produces.

_ Perhaps,  _ Artemis allows.  _ Though I’d like to believe I was a better lover than her. _

Holly raises her brows, and Juliet shoots her a look across the dining room table.

“What are you doing?” Juliet asks.

“Nothing,” Holly says hastily, and of course, Juliet is not at all fooled. 

“Are you texting someone?” Juliet teases, and Holly holds the phone close to her chest defensively.

“No,” she says. “I’m looking at cat pictures.”

“Then you won’t mind if  _ I _ look,” Juliet says gleefully, and Holly makes a face at her, turning away as Juliet tries to grab the phone.

“Oh my god,” Juliet says. “Did you finally download Tindr? Is that why you’ve been on your phone so much lately?”

“I’m not on Tindr,” Holly says, holding the phone away from her. “Christ, Juliet, are you a kid?”

“Fine,” Juliet pouts, and even as Holly’s relaxing, Juliet is snatching her phone from her loosened grasp.

“Juliet!” Holly exclaims, but Juliet is already reading their conversation. Holly tries to grab the phone back, and Juliet walks out of the room, still reading it.

“ _ Juliet _ ,” Holly says, annoyance verging into genuine anger, and Juliet looks up at her with a wide grin. “Give me my phone back, for fuck’s sake-”

“You’re talking to Artemis?”

“So what if I am?” Holly says, crossing her arms and ignoring the warmth on her cheeks. “It’s a free country, last I checked.”

“I thought you hated him?”

“I don’t-  _ hate  _ him,” she protests. “You saw that essay he wrote for us-”

“Wrote for  _ you _ ,” Juliet corrects her, her grin now distinctly of the shit-eating variety.

“Anyway,” she says. “I’m perfectly allowed to talk to whoever I want. Give me my phone back.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Juliet sighs. “You better reply, anyway-”

Holly snatches the phone back to see his next message.

_ My apologies, Ms. Short. I didn't mean to be so bold.  _

__ She looks up at Juliet, who gives her a raised brow.

“What?” Holly asks, still defensive, still annoyed. “We’re just talking.”

“He’s flirting with you,” Juliet says, heading towards her room. 

“Badly,” Holly points out.

“Well, why don’t you show him how a master does it?” Juliet smirks, and before Holly can say something dismissive, she shuts the door behind her.

Fowl’s message is still there, of course. So what if he’s flirting with her? She’s not responsible for his behaviour. Besides, she likes talking to him. He makes her laugh and he sends her good scenery photos. 

(She wonders when he’ll be back in town next.)

(And she absolutely does  _ not _ think about those eyes of his, or how that blush had spread across his wet chest.)

She settles with.  _ dont worry, mud boy, i was just getting a drink. It’ll take more than a reference to ur dick to give me a case of the vapours _

And then, because Holly’s still a little annoyed and because she knows Artemis can hold his own, she adds,  _ but now i get why ur ex is with Opal lmao- is that really your version of being bold? _

He sees the message and doesn’t reply, and she’s as smug with her remark as she is disappointed he isn’t sassing her back. Five minutes later, still no reply. Holly busies herself with getting ready for bed. Still no message before she goes to shower, and Holly wonders if maybe she was a little too rude. Maybe the Opal-Minerva thing is more of a sore spot than he’s letting on. 

_ Whatever.  _ He’s a big boy. Holly does  _ not _ feel bad. She doesn’t, because if she did, then Juliet would never let her live it down.

She finishes her shower, pulls on her old flannel pyjamas and climbs into bed. As she puts her phone on the charger, it vibrates- a reply from Fowl, finally. 

_ Is that a challenge, Ms. Short? _

__ Her mouth, quite unexpectedly, goes dry. 

_ a challenge?  _

_ Yes, _ he replies.  _ It sounds like you’re implying that you doubt my capability as a romantic partner. _

__ She wants to laugh, contrasting these words and how embarrassed he had been standing in front of her, but something in her stomach is uncurling.

(If she says yes, yes this is a challenge, what will he say back? 

_ i wasn’t aware you  _ had _ capability _ , she says bluntly instead.

_ A gentleman doesn’t boast. _

_ then what does that make you? _ She replies, and this back-and-forth is something she knows a little more how to do, even if Fowl is putting his own spin on it.

_ Adaptable, Ms. Short _ .

_ fickle is more like it, _ Holly replies, but she’s grinning.  _ are u ever going to call me by my first name, fowl? _

__ The reply takes a few seconds. It’s now past Holly’s bedtime, but she’s enjoying the conversation too much to stop.

_ Are you ever going to call me by  _ mine _? _

_ if u ask me nicely, maybe _

_ Ms. Short,  _ he replies some minutes later.  _ Are you teasing me? _

_ im flirting with u, fowl,  _ she shoots back.  _ cant u tell the difference? _

_ Perhaps another demonstration would help me clarify. _

__ That thing in her stomach is unfurling now, and she’s grinning even as she’s biting her lip.

_ i dont know, fowl, its past my bedtime as it is… _

_ My apologies, _ he says immediately.  _ Sleep well, Ms. Short. _

__ And then he logs off of Facebook and she’s frowning at her phone and feeling oddly frustrated and kind of horny-

Oh.

Oh,  _ shit. _

-

Het gets the email at the last minute, a pleading message from the Head of Mathematics at New York University for Artemis to come fill in a guest lecturer position in an honors level calculus course for a month- starting next Monday, four days from now.

_ I’m incredibly sorry for the late notice, Mr. Fowl,  _ the Head grovels,  _ but you’re the only person I know who would be able to fill the position.  _

Lies, but it aligns nicely with what Artemis has been looking for: an excuse to go to New York that has nothing to do with Holly.

He replies to the email, tells Butler to arrange the flights and accommodation, and goes and apologises to his mother and father, who have yet to see him for more than a week at a time lately, it seems.

“I know how busy you are, Arty,” his mother says. “But back to New York so soon?”

“And for a month, no less,” his father muses from his comfortable seat by the window, looking over the top of his newspaper. “I thought you hated New York?”

“It’s growing on me,” he says.

“Make sure to pack plenty of warm clothes,” Angeline says. 

“I will,” Artemis assures her. 

Miles, who has been sitting in the corner reading a book, says, “Are you going to see your girlfriend while you’re there?”

“Girlfriend?” Angeline says, and Artemis Sr. raises his brows.

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” Artemis says automatically.

“Then who are you talking to on your phone all the time, then?” Miles says with an air of deep satisfaction. 

“You  _ have _ been on your phone quite a lot,” his father says, mouth twitching. Angeline is the only one who doesn’t press him, watching him patiently.

“Her name is Holly,” Artemis says. “But she is not my girlfriend, if only because I’m a little old to be looking for such a casual relationship.”

“Ah, yes,” Artemis Sr. says, eyes twinkling. “At the ripe age of twenty two, the natural progression is to marriage, of course. I expect to hear wedding bells within a month’s time.”

“Timmy,” Angeline scolds him.

“I have to ask her out on a date first, Dad,” Artemis says. 

“Two months, then,” his father says.

“Please tell me she’s nicer than Minerva,” Miles says, and Angeline looks up at the ceiling, trying to suppress a smile of her own.

“Substantially,” Artemis says gravely.

“If you’re all quite done,” Angeline says, “I think Artemis probably wants some time to prepare his lectures.”

“Indeed,” Artemis says gratefully, and flees to his room.

He spends several hours putting together ten two hour lectures on differential calculus (fortunately, he gave a similar lecture last year in Sweden, so the bulk of his notes are already there) and then Artemis gathers his courage and opens Facebook’s messenger function. 

_ I’m going to be in New York for a month and a half as of this coming Monday _ , he tells her. 

_ missed me that much, huh?  _

_ I was invited by the Head of Mathematics at NYU to fill in a guest lecturing position,  _ he replies with a smile.  _ Don’t get ahead of yourself, Ms. Short. But since I’ll be in town for a while... _

_ is this u asking me out?  _ Holly replies a minute later.

_ Yes. _

_ well, _ Holly says, clearly enjoying herself,  _ you’re going to have to be more direct fowl, we can’t all be boy geniuses and extrapolate information from your vague use of ellipses _

__ Artemis huffs a laugh, even as his fingers are hesitant.  _ Ms. Short, will you go out on a date with me? _

_ what kind of date? _

_ I don’t care, as long as it’s with you, _ he replies seriously. Her reply takes several minutes. He wonders if it was too much, so he adds,  _ why don’t we play it by ear? _

_ alright, fowl,  _ she says.  _ woo me. _

__ _ That’s the plan _ , he replies, and the days can’t pass quick enough.

-

For Holly, the three days pass quickly. But then, this is always how it is leading up to the season; Holly feels like there’s never enough time. 

But No.1 is tireless, cheerful; they’ve almost got the choreography down, which is when Root will step in to direct. Holly’s eager for him to take over. Not because No.1 is incompetent, but because Opal will stop giving him lip.

“There’s too many  _ chaîné turns. _ ”

No.1 blinks, looking away from Descant. “What?”

“I said,” Opal repeats in slow, exaggerated tones, as if No.1 can’t understand English, “There’s too. Many.  _ Chaîné. Turns.” _

“Okay,” No.1 says, cheerful but still visibly uncomfortable. “Well, that’s the choreography, Opal.”

Opal starts to open her mouth, and Holly cuts across her.

“There’s more than enough time for you to do them, Opal,” Holly says coldly. “If you’re having difficulty, you should spend more time putting in the practice with us in the morning, instead of turning up twenty minutes late with Starbucks.”

“I don’t  _ need _ to practice,” Opal says venomously, “I am  _ not _ the issue here-”

“Afternoon, everyone,” says a gruff voice, and Opal immediately shuts up; Root stands in the doorway, arms crossed, and Opal is sweet and submissive for the rest of the day.

“I  _ hate _ her,” Juliet says later that night over their steamed chicken and rice. Back to healthy food now, much to her disappointment. “I hope she breaks a leg or something and we never have to see her again, I don’t care how much trouble it would cause.”

“Mm,” Holly says absently, because Fowl should be landing tonight, and she can’t stop thinking about what he said, the earnestness of him. She’s been trying to read her book for the last half hour and keeps realising she’s read the same paragraph over and over-

“A little birdy told me Arty’s in town tomorrow,” Juliet says, and Holly coughs.

“A little birdy?” Holly says, washing down the chicken stuck in her throat.

“Yeah,” Juliet says. “He sent me his itinerary. Wants to catch up sometime next week.  _ I  _ suggested Monday, but apparently, he’s already busy.”

“Is that so?” Holly says innocently, focusing on cutting her chicken. 

“ _ Apparently _ ,” Juliet continues, “He’s got a  _ date.  _ I don’t suppose you’d know anything about that? _ ” _

“I might,” Holly allows. 

“I  _ knew _ it!” Juliet crows. 

“It’s just a date,” Holly protests.

“Yeah, and you’ve  _ only _ been chatting to him twenty-four-seven for the last few weeks,” Juliet says, rolling her eyes. “What are you guys going to do?”

“We’re going to just hang out. See where the evening takes us. Very casual.”

“Oh, you sweet summer child,” Juliet says. “He must be balls deep in love with you if he agreed to  _ that _ .”

“You’re blowing this way out of proportion,” Holly mutters.

“Mmm _ hmm _ ,” Juliet drawls. 

-

He’s waiting at the bottom of her apartment block the next night, jaw tight, checking his reflection in a nearby window every couple of seconds. He’s ten minutes early, because he wants this night- as painfully unorganised as it is- to go perfectly. His hair is freshly cut, his stubble perfectly trimmed, and he’s in his favourite pair of wool slacks and matching jacket with a casual long sleeved black t-shirt underneath. Artemis likes to think, all in all he looks like -to quote Juliet- “a snack”. 

God, but he wants this to go well, in a way he never did with Minerva. He wants Holly to have a fantastic evening, to go home with a smile on her face like the one she’s given him so many times over. He’s reciting the first five hundred digits of pi in his head to try and calm down when the door to her building opens; he looks up and swallows.

Holly’s wearing a pair of black corduroy overalls and a deep green turtleneck underneath that sets off the tone of her skin, brown leather boots that make her just a little taller, and she’s dwarfed in an oversized fleece-lined denim jacket. She looks incredibly chic and incredibly cute and just as beautiful as he remembers and oh dear, maybe his father wasn’t joking about the wedding bells.

As she comes down the steps, she stops so they’re eye to eye. For a breath-taking moment, Artemis wonders if she’s going to kiss him. For a tense moment, he wonders if she’s about to yell at him instead.

Instead, she sniffs the air. “I knew I smelt mud, Fowl.”

Artemis huffs a laugh, the ice cracking. “Are you sure that isn’t the copious amounts of bullshit I you’re so convinced I manage to stuff into my person at any given time?”

Holly laughs now, startled, and Artemis’s cheeky grin becomes a smile as she comes to stand next to him.

“You look lovely,” he tells her. “Very New York chic.”

“I like these overalls because I  _ look  _ like I’m into fashion, but I can also beat up a mugger in them.”

“Ah,” Artemis says. “Truly, I’m so glad I have you to protect me. Where are we going, Ms. Short?”

“Well, this new speakeasy opened up nearby…”

The speakeasy is well hidden; she takes him down an alleyway, and stops in front of what appears to be a blank brick wall.

“Do I need to pull over and ask for directions?” Artemis asks her wryly. “We appear to be lost.”

“Please, Fowl,” Holly says. “Asking a New Yorker for directions? They’d eat you alive.”

She presses a brick in, and a whole patch of wall swings inward, music and the scent of whiskey drifting out.

Artemis is impressed.

“I’m impressed,” he says.

“You’re not the only one with class,” Holly says, winking at him, and as they walk in the wall swings itself shut behind them.

At the end of the dimly lit corridor on the right, it opens up into a room that couldn’t fit more than fifty people in a pinch; a trio playing some slow blues in the corner while several bartenders mix drinks and chat with an assortment of patrons. Holly hangs up her coat at the door, waves at one of the bartenders and leads Artemis to a seat in a small corner booth. 

“Scott over there is an ex-dancer,” Holly explains. “What are you drinking? I’ll get this round.”

“Whiskey, please. Neat.”

“A neat whiskey, ooh,” she grins. “Fancy fancy. You don’t want to share a ridiculous cocktail?”

“I’ll do whatever you want, Ms. Short,” he says sincerely, and she blinks.

“Uh. Whiskey then,” she nods, and he watches her as she orders, how she smiles and jokes with the bartender, Scott. Scott says something, motions at Artemis, and Holly rolls her eyes. 

As he waits, Artemis takes in the bar. He’s impressed with the design, the atmosphere; the place is just the right amount of old, the leather seats carefully distressed and the wooden bar made from perfectly aged wood. If it weren’t for the distinct lack of dust or bad hygiene, he would fancy they were all the way back in the prohibition era.

“He asked me what type of whiskey you liked,” Holly says, sliding back into the booth with their drinks. “I told him to give you the best he had in stock. I hope that was a fair call.”

Artemis takes a sip: it’s absolutely delightful, caramel notes that evaporate on his tongue and send warmth to the tips of his toes.

“A fair call indeed,” he says, setting the glass back down. “I hope though, that it wasn’t too expensive.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Holly says. “Next round is yours, and I’m getting something powerful to make up for it.” She takes a sip of her drink and smacks her lips, screwing up her nose. “You want a taste?”

“I’m surprised you don’t have a quip about my cooties,” Artemis says. 

“You should be more worried about mine, Mud Boy,” she says with a wolfish grin.

“You are aware of course, that the miniscule amount of saliva you leave on this glass would be nowhere near enough to have me concerned,” Artemis replies, and takes a sip. A whiskey sour, the lemon cutting through the acrid bourbon with notes of fig. Very nice.

“I’ll spit in it next time,” Holly promises.

“Really, Ms. Short,” Artemis says before he can stop himself, “If you want to get your saliva in my mouth, you’d be better off cutting out the middleman.”

Holly laughs. “I think that’s the most forward you’ve ever been.”

“I’m aware,” Artemis mutters, cheeks burning. “My apologies.”

“For flirting with me?” Holly says in amusement. “Oh, the gall.”

“I don’t want to mess this up again,” Artemis tells her, and she blinks.

“I mean, I don’t think you could do anything worse than you already did,” she points out.

“True,” Artemis allows, taking another sip of his whiskey. 

“Besides,” Holly continues, fishing the garnish slice of kumquat out of her glass. “You talk a big talk, Fowl, but I’m waiting to actually see if you can put your large amount of money where your even larger mouth is.”

Artemis’s mouth goes dry as she smirks at him from behind her slice of fruit.

“Well,” he says, clears his throat.

“You’re blushing,” Holly says gleefully. “God, you’re easy to rile up. Relax, Fowl, I’m not expecting you to leap over the table and play tonsil hockey with me.”

“Oh,” he says faintly.

“A little later, maybe,” Holly says lasciviously, and laughs when he chokes on his whiskey.

-

As they leave the bar a few drinks later, Holly goes to put her jacket back on; instead, she finds Artemis (he’s not Fowl, anymore, he can’t be) already there, helping her put it on. 

She’s only had two drinks, he doesn’t even touch her like someone more forward would, but just the warmth of his breath on her neck has her shivering.

“Where next, Ms. Short?” he asks her, and he has no right to look as good as he does tonight.

“I was thinking we try a tapas place a few blocks away,” Holly starts, and then she sees who’s coming down the hallway.

“Eurgh,” she says, as Opal and a blond woman Holly assumes is Artemis’s ex step into the bar, both in sleek dresses and heels.

“Oh, look,” Opal says nastily. “I thought Scott only let the best of the best in here?”

“He does,” Holly shoots back. “So that kind of begs the question why  _ you _ ’ _ re _ here, doesn’t it?”

“Ms. Koboi, Ms. Paradizo,” Artemis says politely. “We were just on our way out.”

“What’s this?” Opal says, amused. “Are you two on a date?” She turns to Minerva, who is heavily focussing on the excruciating task that is unbuttoning her coat. “Arty finally figured out the type of women in his league, I suppose?”

Holly bristles as Minerva titters.

“The wonderful kind,” Artemis says with a genuine smile at Holly, and suddenly, she doesn’t care as much about Opal’s sharp little face in the background. He tentatively puts a hand on the small of her back, and she shivers. Minerva frowns, and without looking away from Holly, Artemis says, “If you’ll excuse us, ladies. Enjoy your evening.”

Opal makes some cutting remark but Holly doesn’t care, because all she can think about is how secure his hand feels on her back, how he’s smiling so genuinely down at her as they leave.

“You’re a bigger person than I am,” she tells him, as the wall closes shut behind them. 

“I can afford to be,” he says simply. “I lead a wonderful life and am blessed to have the people I know in it. I try not to waste it on people like Opal Koboi when someone like you is standing next to me.”

Holly stares at him.

“Where’s this tapas restaurant?” he asks her, letting his hand fall away, and suddenly she’s dragging his face down towards her and kissing him. He responds by snaking his arm around her around the waist, a hand in her hair, pulling her tightly to him. He tastes like caramel from his whiskey and his aftershave smells like cinnamon and  _ fuck _ , he’s a good kisser. 

She pulls away first, and he blinks down at her, dazed. If he looks like that from a kiss, she can’t wait to see what he’ll look like underneath her.

(Oh, now  _ that’s _ an image she can’t get out of her head. _ ) _

“Huh,” he says dumbly. “I have to admit, I didn’t think  _ that _ was going to happen. I’ll make sure to ask you for directions more often.”

“I told you,” she grins. “Asking a New Yorker for directions? We’ll eat you alive.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” he murmurs, and they set off.

-

Minerva is in a foul mood for the rest of the evening, which Opal finds both childish, insulting, and irritating. She’s still hung up over Fowl?  _ Really? _

__ After they return home, as Minerva clumsily tries to get her off and Opal makes all the right sounds, the idea occurs to her: she wants to get rid of Short, and Fowl is  _ dating _ Short, and Minerva hates Fowl.

Oh, this is going to be  _ fun _ .

“I’m glad you feel better,” Opal says sweetly afterwards, ignoring the unsatisfied throb between her thighs. “I was so worried when we ran into those two…”

“I’m fine,” Minerva mutters. “He can date whoever he wants.”

“Mmm,” Opal says gently, stroking Minerva open lazily, the lightest brush. “It’s okay. I know you still care about him. How could you not?”

“I suppose,” Minerva says warily, shivering. 

“I’m surprised Short is dating him, though,” Opal continues. “She’s always been short on money, I thought she would be… intimidated by his wealth, perhaps…”

_ Take the bait,  _ she thinks.

“Is that so?” Minerva says, frowning. 

“I hesitated to bring it to Root, since she’s his favourite, but I’ve caught her stealing equipment several times,” Opal sighs. A blatant lie, but needs must, and who’s going to contradict her?

“That’s awful!” Minerva exclaims, and Opal watches in amusement as the woman’s mind visibly works. “I’ll bring it to Papa,” she decides. “He’ll know what to do.”

“Oh, what a wonderful idea,” Opal says innocently, slipping her fingers in and making Minerva shudder, her eyes roll into the back of her head. “You’re so smart, my love.”

_ Idiot,  _ Opal thinks, and brings her to orgasm in a matter of seconds. 

-

Holly is usually a third date sort of girl when it comes to sleeping with people, but when Artemis pays for their meal and offers to drop her home, she shakes her head.

“I’d like to go to yours,” she says pointedly. “If that’s okay with you.”

“I’ll call a taxi right away,” Artemis says immediately, and she laughs.

The moment they get through the apartment door, it’s inevitable, the way they come together; how he’s kissing down her neck, how she bites his lip, the drag of their hands down each other’s skin like rolling thunder.

“If you call me Fowl,” Artemis says breathlessly as he undoes her bra with one hand, “I may very well lose my mind.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Fowl,” she says mischievously, groans as he runs this thumb over her nipple. 

“What do I have to do to get my first name from your pretty mouth, Ms. Short?” he replies just as mischievously.

“A lot more than what you’re doing now.”

“Well, if you insist,” he says, and ten minutes later as his head is buried between her legs, she’s screaming it. Loudly.

-

Artemis’s month and a half in New York passes quickly, and nowhere near enough as he’d like is spent with Holly.

But he understands she’s working hard, that her career is the most important thing in her life, and he can respect that. So he values every stolen moment Holly gives him, every smile. She’s often too tired to do much more than laze on the sofa at the end of a long day of practice, so he streamlines it; organises Ubers for her, has her favourite sitcom lined up on Netflix, ready to rub her feet and make sure the room service he orders fits her dietary requirements, and soon she’s essentially living with him.

( _ “No complaints here,” _ , Juliet grins over the phone.  _ “It’s nice being able to walk around the house naked.”) _

When he isn’t with Holly, he’s lecturing, or looking for a suitable, more permanent residence. Because when she rolled over the next morning, dried drool on her chin and almost starfishing him out of the bed, Artemis knew he wasn’t going to be able to leave the city without her.

It’s startling, how quickly their habits form; after one evening, they’re showering together, brushing their teeth together. Artemis will wake up a little earlier than her to make sure she has coffee ready to go, courtesy of the hotel’s cafe; long black, with one teaspoon of sugar.

(His lectures are… uneventful. Which is good, because it means he can run them on autopilot. He may look like he’s fielding questions with utmost sharpness and a quick wit but he’s actually thinking about the way Holly sighed as he thrust into her, how good her finger felt around the rim of him.)

After about a week, the sex slows down, if only because Holly is a professional dancer and needs more than four hours of sleep a night. It becomes less frantic and more thoughtful, and nights of exploration turn to eating out with Juliet, or watching a movie while Artemis rubs Holly’s feet.

He couldn’t be happier.

-

For Holly, the next month and a half is intense, every minute of the day stretched double. Practice for seven hours a day and physiotherapy on top of that makes for exhaustion.

But, when she comes home to Artemis- it’s that breath of needed air. Their sex is fantastic, but she enjoys the quiet moments with him just as much. His snorts of disbelief at a plot hole in one of her favourite shows; how he washes what little hair she has in the shower; how he feels in her arms as they lay in bed.

She gets distracted, a little. It’s inevitable. It’s also unprofessional.

“Short,” Root barks during one of their practices. “What was  _ that?” _

“A  _ grand jete _ ,” Holly says guiltily. She had been thinking about Artemis’s fingers on the crease of her ass. She’s only human.

“Are you sure? Because it looked awfully crooked to me. Again.”

Another time:

“For God’s sake, Short. Are you a professional dancer or not?”

And:

“Short! Get your head out of the clouds, that was meant to be  _ sur la pointe, _ not  _ sur la demi-pointe _ .”

Opal begins murmuring more and more behind Holly’s back, and if Holly weren’t struggling to balance it all, she would sock her in the jaw. 

As they approach opening night, Root becomes permanently red, yelling at every tiny misstep, and Grub actually leaves in tears at one point. The pressure is overwhelming; between Root’s expectations, Opal’s bullshit and Holly’s perfectionism, if she didn’t have Artemis, she thinks she might have gone full  _ Black Swan _ .

But every night, Artemis listens to her patiently, rubs her aching, broken feet, makes sure she eats, and it’s only been seven weeks, and Holly’s so stressed she wants to scream, but- 

Dating isn’t a strong enough word. 

Not really.

-

“ _ -no, my dear, I won’t do that. I find it very… to believe-” _

_ “-calling Opal a liar?” _

_ “- know what I think of her, Minerva-” _

__ Opal frowns, leans back from the door. She had rather been hoping Gaspard was as easy to manipulate as his daughter, but judging from the muffled conversation she’s hearing…

Footsteps clacking on the hardwood floor, and Opal quickly draws back from the door,sits back on the couch and pretends to pay attention to the insipid period drama Minerva has her watching.

She looks up and fixes a smile as the two Paradizos come out. 

“You just missed the best part,” she says lightly, noticing how Minerva’s eyes are red rimmed, and how her father’s expression of cheerfulness looks extremely forced.

“I’m going to go to bed,” Minerva says, and stalks off to her room like a child. 

“Ms. Koboi,” Gaspard says. “May I have a word?”

He gestures towards his office, and she maintains that look of innocence. “Of course, Gaspard.”

Following him in, she sits down in front of his desk and pretends to be very invested in what he has to say.

He politely tells her he believes she’s a bad influence on his daughter and that while he would never presume to act on his daughter’s behalf, he’s keeping an eye on her and blah blah blah. Opal couldn’t care less; she’s fixated on his open email inbox which has several emails from the NYCB directors, and if he’s not going to give her what she wants, well. She’s going to take it for herself.

-

Five days before the start of their season, Root calls Holly in to his office, just below the Corps’s top floor studio. He looks… redder than usual. And worried, which immediately has Holly snapping out of her daydreams about going home to Artemis. Anything that has Root worried has her  _ very _ worried.

“Sit down, Short,” Root says, chewing on one of those noxious cigars. He closes the door behind her, and if she was worried before, now she’s down right anxious.

“What is it, Commander?” Holly says lightly. It’s a testament to Root’s concern that he doesn’t yell at her for the nickname.

“I thought it was best to speak to you about this in person,” he mutters, lighting the cigar. He takes several deep breaths, huffs it out. As Holly coughs, he continues. “We received a very strongly worded email last week from one of our largest sponsors calling for your removal from the corps.”

Well, he certainly doesn’t fuck around. Holly finds that every organ in her body has been replaced with ice and doesn’t know what to say.

“Now, don’t get yourself in a knot,” Root says, seeing her expression. “The majority of the directors voted to keep you in, and I’m meeting with the sponsors next week,  _ personally _ , to figure out what all the fuss is about.”

“Okay,” Holly breathes. “So, what now?”

“Keep your head down,” Root says not unkindly. “Work hard, do me proud at the opening show. I didn’t tell you this to scare you, Holly. I told you this to warn you.”

“Well, you’ve scared me anyway,” Holly says.

“I’d rather have you scared and the best dancer in the corps than have to deal with Little Miss back as principal,” Root mutters, and that’s tantamount to a confession of familial love. “I’ll keep you updated, but try not to ruffle anyone’s feathers until I smooth this over, alright?”

Holly nods, stands up. Before she leaves, a thought strikes her and she turns back to Root. “Which sponsor?” 

“Gaspard Paradizo,” Root grumbles, sucks in another breath of fumes. “Took me by surprise, to be honest. He always seemed to like you. But don’t worry about him, Short. I’ve got your back. Believe it or not, I have a little pull in this company, you know.”

Holly closes the door behind her, mind reeling. She knows Minerva probably isn’t too happy with her and Artemis dating but- surely she wouldn’t? She can’t be  _ that _ much of a child, could she?

And for the first time since their second date, Holly goes back to her and Juliet’s, and sleeps in her own bed.

-

Artemis is surprised by Holly’s last minute choice to stay at her apartment, but he isn’t concerned. Opening night is mere days away, and he understands that she needs to fortify, get a good night’s rest in her own bed. He was hoping to tell her tonight that his contract as lecturer had been renewed for an entire semester, that he’s narrowed down a few apartments he’d like and wants her opinion on, but it can wait for tomorrow. He’ll get ahead in marking these assignments and read that blues biography she recommended to him.

It feels… lonely though, without her. He’s never been lonely before, but that was before he had Holly.

-

“I think this is the first time you’ve ever rang me for an appointment you weren’t due for,” Vinyaya says, peering at Holly over her glasses. “Tell me what’s wrong, my dear.”

So Holly does, curled up tensely on the plush couch that’s seen her through from her first performance: she tells Vinyaya about how happy she’s been this past month, that she’s becoming distracted, that it seems because of the immature temper tantrums of Artemis’s ex-girlfriend her career is under fire, that, well, it feels like she has to make a hard decision. 

Vinyaya listens without judgement, and at the end of it, when Holly’s voice breaks, she says, “I can’t choose for you, Holly. You know this. And if Julius says he has this under control, I’m inclined to believe him. He’s always been quite fond of you.”

“I’ve worked  _ so hard _ , Vinyaya,” Holly says. “I can’t- I  _ won’t _ put my career in jeopardy just for… some guy!”

(For the only man she’s ever met who makes her smile like Artemis does, laugh like Artemis does. For the most incredible sex she’s ever had. For happiness that doesn’t end with her feet and joints aching.)

(She’s hardening her heart, and she can only hope it doesn’t crack under the sudden change in pressure.)

“Well, it sounds like you’ve made your decision, Holly,” Vinyaya says. “You know I support you with whatever you do. But try not to be rash. This Artemis sounds like he’s an important part of your life.”

“He is,” Holly mutters. 

But ballet has been important for far longer.

-

  
  


When Artemis opens the door for Holly, he’s delighted, eyes roving over her face, and he feels warm and at peace and he can’t keep in his excitement.

“I have wonderful news,” he says, taking her coat. “The NYU has offered to renew my contract for another semester, and I know it’s moving fast but I’ve found a few apartments that I think we should go look at together-”

“We need to talk,” Holly says, looking stricken, and he wonders if this punch to the heart is how Minerva felt when he said the exact same words to her.

“Of course,” he says instead of embracing her, sits down on the couch.

(She remains standing. Artemis isn’t given to bouts of pessimism, but he’s now so anxious he may die.)

Holly, in classic Holly style, doesn’t waste time:

“I’m breaking up with you.”

Artemis can’t breathe for a moment. As he has an out of body experience, he says, “What did I do?”

“Nothing. This isn’t- you’re- this is a distraction I don’t need right now,” Holly says, and she’s not making any sense. He doesn’t understand; casts through every memory of the last month and there’s not a single one where she isn’t smiling. 

“Holly-”

“Look, Fowl,” she says, and Artemis flinches. “ This isn’t up for discussiion.”

“Tell me what I did wrong,” he says numbly, as she stands up. “Holly, please-”

“Goodbye,” Holly says, and then- she leaves.

Artemis doesn’t see her tears, doesn’t see her conflict, as she closes the door behind her. All he sees is the tense lines of her, the lack of warmth. And then it’s just him, and her scent all around him, and for the first time in his life, Artemis Fowl doesn’t know what to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hhhh i really dont know when i'll have the next chapter up, but hopefully it wont take another 3 months lmfao.... thanks for reading!! let me know what u thought!!


	3. Act Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Artemis watches a lot of television, Holly pretends it's all ok, and Minerva is a bit of a badass, or; we get a happy ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mmmmmm got nothing to say for myself with how late this is cdkljkljkldj

Thirty minutes before the curtains rise, and Holly is thrumming with energy but her is chest taut and heavy. Juliet and her are stretching in preparation, keeping themselves warm. Holly’s knee is aching. It’s a welcome reprieve from her thoughts.

(“I broke up with Artemis.”

“Why?!”

“He was distracting me.”

“Oh,  _ Holly _ .”)

Juliet hasn’t asked her about it, thankfully, but Holly can see from the twist of her mouth that she’s as frustrated as she is saddened. Holly refuses to wonder if Artemis has spoken to her. She can’t spare anything at the moment; all of her is diverted, focused, on the next two hours, a magnifying glass beneath the sun of her.

(He had dropped off her things the next morning while she was out at a physio appointment. Everything still smelt of him.)

(No,  _ no _ , focus.)

No matter how many times Holly performs, it’s always opening night that’s the worst. Not because she’s nervous, but because of this exact half hour, the limbo before the curtains rise, where all she can do is go over what she needs to improve, what she knows is most likely to go wrong, and Holly has always been one for doing rather than thinking. She’s relieved when the orchestra begins tuning their instruments, and when she can take her place on the stage. All that energy is buzzing in her throat, and she has the mad desire to call out  _ I’m here! _ to the chattering audience separated from her. 

Because look at her,  _ look at me _ , look what she’s done and what she’s about to do. She assumes her opening pose and as the music swells, as that energy suddenly smooths out into potential, Holly is thinking of nothing; quiet, wonderful nothing.

-

Artemis still attends opening night, of course. A glutton for punishment- as the curtain rises, it’s like an open lash on his back.

Holly does magnificently as Alice, obviously. He may be utterly broken and empty inside (and more than a touch dramatic about it) but he isn’t blind. Perfect, utterly perfect, even if watching her is pouring salt into the fresh wound. The other dancers, rather than be dimmed by her talent, shine even brighter. Kelp as Alice’s love interest is as technically brilliant as ever; Juliet as Alice’s sister is so light on her feet that Artemis somehow manages a smile.

Something is off about Ms. Koboi, however, and Artemis (grateful for anything to fill his thoughts) can’t figure out what it is. She seems… unstable; her leg distinctly wobbles upon an easy landing in the final act, her form not as masterful as he regretfully acknowledges she could have it. 

(He can’t look at Holly for more than a second or two at a time.)

He applauds at the end as the curtains fall, and then he catches an Uber back to his hotel room. For a moment, he considers writing a review, but the idea is too painful. He begins packing, instead; the next morning, he’s on a plane back to Ireland. Licking his wounds, he supposes as it takes off, and somehow manages to sleep the entire way. Butler, who flew back a week early, is waiting for him at the airport. He lays a gentle hand on Artemis’s shoulder, and Artemis is so overwhelmed by the kindness of it he has to pretend he has something in his eyes. 

“Let’s get you home,” Butler says.

Home hasn’t changed much, of course. The manor is the same, the twins are the same (albeit with new scrapes and scabs). The trees have entirely shed their leaves, long since raked away by their gardner. It’s gratifyingly maudlin.

His brothers are back to school, and his parents are in the middle of organising a large charity event and are (thankfully) leaving him be rather than investigate what went so horribly wrong. This leaves Artemis to indulge in how awful he feels. He thinks it’s rather fair, after all. The love of his life just left him. Why shouldn’t he wear black clothing and drape himself over the bannister mournfully?

Well, that’s a bit of an exaggeration. He allows himself a single day of moroseness, wherein he wraps himself in a blanket, drinks half a bottle of sherry and watches two seasons of Golden Girls. 

The problem is that Artemis has analysed this break up from every angle and he just can’t find a reason for Holly to have done it beyond what she told him. And even  _ that _ doesn’t hold up to her emotional logic; only the week before, she had been excited, relatively well rested, told him she had never been so happy in her life. Something changed, and he doesn’t know what, can’t figure out what, an exterior factor beyond his control.

He toys with calling Juliet, as he watches his fifth episode of Golden Girls, but it would be unfair to place her in that position, no matter how badly he wants answers. Forces himself to accept it, as he lies in bed that night; forces himself to turn off his phone so he doesn’t check it.

After his self-mandated day of experiencing his emotion, he… gets on with it. He’s never been one to sit idle (metaphorically at least) and Artemis throws himself into his work, fills every inch of his day with writing papers and organising meetings and when he can’t sit still anymore, he goes for walks that eventually turn into hikes.

(He keeps waiting for the thoughts about Holly to stop.)

(They don’t.)

-

A season of ballet lasts on average for two months. Dancers will perform their show at least six times a week on average, and go through as many as one hundred pair of shoes by the end of the season. They’ll suffer blisters and bunions and probably break a toe and swallow a lot of pain killers and then they’ll get up the next day and do it over again.

Holly’s memory is short when it comes to physical pain; it’s why she hasn’t stopped dancing yet. She’s used to bouncing back, getting up the next day and feeling fine. 

So when she wakes up after the first week of the season and Artemis is still on her mind, it’s infuriating as much as it is frightening. She sits with her feet in the ice bucket and wishes she could do the same with her heart, this stupid thing.

“My fucking bunion is killing me,” Juliet groans, collapsing on the couch next to her. “Get me a knife, I’m going to cut it out myself.”

“You can’t cut out a bunion,” Holly says in exasperation, glad to be snapped from her navel gazing. 

“You can if the knife is sharp enough,” Juliet says, draping a hand over her eyes. “Pass me the steak knife, Holly, I beg you.”

“There’s still another six weeks to go,” Holly reminds her, and Juliet’s dramatic pose softens and somehow tenses at the same time.

“I think this is going to be my last season,” she says quietly, and Holly stares at her. “I’m just. I’m tired of being sore all the time.”

“You’re only twenty six,” Holly says, unsure if she’s joking. “You still have a few more years left in you. Besides, what would you even  _ do? _ ”

“I could teach,” Juliet says, arm still over her eyes. “I’m good with kids, you know.” She takes her arm away then, looks at Holly. “You’re just getting started, Holly. I’ve been principal a few times, and I’ve had my time in the spotlight, and I’m ready to do something else with myself.”

“You can’t just- _stop_ ,” Holly protests. “You’re a brilliant dancer!”  
“Leave ‘em wanting more, I always say,” Juliet says with a grin that doesn’t stay for long.

“Have you told Root?”

“Yeah. He went beetroot.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t actually combust,” Holly admits, and grins despite herself. It feels good.

“Oh, give it time,” Juliet says. “It’ll be you or Opal that does him in- you out of anger, Opal out of sheer relief.” She pauses. “It’s not just me when I say Opal looks like she’s losing it, right?”

“Oh, big time,” Holly says, her grin turning grim. “She nearly fainted in the dressing room last night, didn’t you notice?”

“I put it down to her generally being melodramatic,” Juliet says, brows crinkling. 

“No. Whatever she’s taking is sending her in the deep end,” Holly says, staring out their window. 

“Is it bad that I’m kinda of glad?” Juliet says. “I mean, karma-wise.”

“Yeah, same,” Holly says. “It’s a shame that if she gets hospitalised it’ll put a damper on things.”

They both look out the window for a while.

“So,” Juliet says. Cautiously. Probingly.

“So,” Holly says, refusing to look at her.

“Are we gonna talk about it?”

“About what?”

“You  _ know _ what,” Juliet says, sisterly voice on in full force. “What the fuck happened?”

Holly crosses her arms. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I think you  _ should _ talk about it,” Juliet says sternly. “Because it seemed to me like you were the happiest you’ve ever been. Did he do something? I’ll kill him, Holly, if he did  _ anything _ , you know I would!”

Holly rubs her temples. “Artemis didn’t do anything, Juliet, put your pitchfork down.”

“Then what happened?”  
Holly tells her about the email Root received from Gaspard Paradizo, and she doesn’t even have to explain before Juliet connects the dots.

“Forget Artemis,” she says. “I’m going to kill Minerva.I’m going to rip every individual hair out of her head.”

“What’s done is done,” Holly says roughly. “I wasn’t going to risk my career just because he’s hot and rich.”

Juliet opens and closes her mouth several times, and then she changes tack. “Has Root gotten back to you yet about it?”

“No. Can’t blame him, you know how it gets with opening season.”

“I think you should follow up with him,” Juliet says firmly. “First thing tomorrow, okay?”

“I guess,” Holly shrugs. 

“Hot and rich,” Juliet mutters to herself as she gets up to hobble to the kitchen. “Love wasn’t at all involved, of course not, just money and good cheekbones.”

-

Minerva’s always lead a relatively sheltered life. She can admit it. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. She comes from a place of privilege and no amount of social work and awareness can change that.

Opal also comes from a place of privilege, and perhaps this is why Minerva doesn’t put two and two together immediately; dismisses her sudden temper swings and shaking as exhaustion; dismisses her growing disinterest in food as pressure; dismisses the bloodshot eyes as late nights.

Perhaps it’s also because Minerva wants this to work, so badly. She’s never been good at being alone, never been good at taking solace in her own company. In retrospect, it’s horrifying how far she lets it go, putting aside caustic remarks and condescension, until her father knocks on her study door one night, two weeks into the ballet’s season.

“My dear,” he says in their native French. “We need to talk.”

She looks up from her book. “Is everything alright?”

“I have… concerns I need to discuss with you.” His face is grimmer than she’s seen it for a long time, and the daughter in her automatically prepares for some sort of admonishment, even though she can think of nothing she’s done wrong.

“Julius, from the NYBC, contacted me two weeks ago regarding an email sent from my address,” he says, and sits down on the reading chair she so loves in the corner. “This email called for Holly Short, this season’s female principal dancer, to be removed from the NYBC.”

Minerva frowns in confusion even as the name sets her on edge, makes her think of Artemis, and her, and her and Artemis-

“I was quite confused because I sent no such email to him,” Gaspard continues meaningfully. “I also got my security experts to check our system in case it had been compromised. It had not.”

“And you think I sent it?” Minerva finishes, removing her reading glasses. 

“That is what I came here to ask,” he says. “I know you are… not entirely unmoved by Artemis’s new relationship with her.”

“I didn’t send the email,” she says. 

“You don’t need to lie to me,” he says gently. “We all make mistakes, and no harm has been done.”

“I didn’t send it,” she says, sharply. “On Mama’s grave, I did not send that message.”

Invoking her mother’s grave is not something either of them have ever done lightly, and while he frowns, he accepts her answer. 

“I can’t figure out who would have sent it,” he says to himself. “My security expert must have missed something.”

Minerva, though, is already thinking and analysing and the conclusion she reaches is... undesirable. The only person who’s been in the house regularly enough to have access to her father’s computer and has the motive is Opal. And Opal has been acting strange, words slurring and dark circles under her eyes and bad breath, and Minerva wants to put it down to stress but, well.

Minerva isn’t stupid. Far from it. And even if she’s not emotionally neutral about this entire situation, it doesn’t take an idiot to surmise that Opal is taking drugs of some kind. But Minerva is also young, and a little naive, so rather than confront Opal about the entire situation, she decides to do some sleuthing instead.

-

Butler, in all his time as Artemis’s guardian, has seen many things from his charge. He’s seen childish fury and adult sadness, childish grace and adult pettiness- often in the same day. He’s observed Artemis outsmart the Russian mafia, for God’s sake. So it’s strange to see Artemis now, so devastatingly normal and human as he goes about his life trying to recover from a very one-sided break up.

When Artemis broke up with Minerva, it was all very logical; Artemis came to Butler with a list of reasons, checked that none of them were ridiculous (only one- that she wears brown oxford brogues with black slacks) and then got on with it. An hour later he was back home looking very relieved and helping himself to a piece of fresh cake.

Now, Artemis is aggressively focused. When the twins are home, he spends a lot more time than he would usually, indulging them in their play-fights and helping them with their homework. He goes out to dinner with his parents and then spends every second alone doing something, it seems. He comes to Butler and asks for a punishingly intense fitness regime, starts playing the piano again, disappears into his workshop for hours on end.

It’s three weeks after the break up when he comes into the living room and finds Artemis knitting while watching the Golden Girls that Butler decides it’s time to intervene.

(Not that Butler has anything against knitting, but Artemis clearly has a long way to go before becoming proficient. Butler would rather walk naked through the snowy heights of Mt. Elbrus once more with Madam Ko than wear what looks like an extremely misshapen scarf with a blue diamond pattern-  _ clearly _ intended on becoming a birthday gift.)

Butler doesn’t mess around with small talk. He turns the TV off and sits across the Artemis and just looks at him.

Artemis doesn’t look up from his knitting. “I was watching that, Butler.”

“What happened between you and Holly?” Butler says, and Artemis puts down his needles. 

“I wish I knew,” Artemis says mildly. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m rather distraught about the whole thing.”

Butler looks down at the lumpy scarf and back up at Artemis, and decides to tactfully not address this.

“Have you spoken to Juliet?” Butler asks instead.

Artemis fiddles with the needles. “I’ve decided not to involve Juliet in this. She’s Holly’s friend first and foremost, and I don’t want to put her in a position of conflicting interest.”

Butler nods, and then stands up and walks out of the room, leaving Artemis looking faintly bewildered.

-

Luckily, Holly is at her physio appointment when Juliet gets Domovoi’s call. She’s listening to a podcast while she massages her feet when the ringtone blasts into her ears; wincing, she presses accept and keeps rubbing her bunion.

_ “Juliet,” _ Dom says, which is a really abrupt way to start a conversation but his voice is warm so she’ll forgive him. 

“Hey, bro,” Juliet grunts, rubbing her knuckle into the arch of her foot.

Dom pauses.  _ “Have I rung at a bad time?” _

“Nah, just giving the old bunion a rub. What’s up?”

_ “Artemis isn’t doing too well.”  _ Dom pauses, and then says, with a furtive kind of hush,  _ “He’s taken up  _ knitting.”

Juliet sucks air through her teeth. 

_ “I’m ringing because I think he needs some sort of closure. Do you have any idea what happened?” _

Juliet sighs. “Yeah. It’s a mess.” She tells him about the email likely sent by Minerva, the stress Holly is under as a result, how Holly is clearly just as unhappy about the whole situation as Artemis is.

Dom doesn’t immediately respond. Juliet wonders if it’s because Dom had a soft spot for Minerva, and is disappointed in her. 

(Well, good. Minerva jeopardised her friend’s fucking career and ended her most meaningful relationship, the bitch!)

“Right,” Dom says eventually, his big brother voice in full effect. “Thank you, Juliet.”

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Juliet advises him, looking glumly at her bunion. “And you didn’t hear  _ any  _ of this from me.”

-

The reviews roll in quite quickly after opening night, as per usual. Holly (unable to stop herself) read them all. They’re glowing, praising every aspect of the performance, and she’s lauded as one of the NYBC’s best dancers so far. It’s wonderful. 

Except, as Root sends her each review, she reads the author’s name and it’s not  _ his _ . 

“I want this to go away,” she tells Vinyaya. “It was barely even a month, and yeah, he was cute, but he won’t be the last cute person I have a relationship with. I need to focus! I can’t afford not to be perfect, this season.”

“You and I both know that time doesn’t necessarily reflect on the strength of emotions,” Vinyaya says calmly, and Holly grimaces.

“I suppose,” Holly grumbles. “God, I hate feeling like this.”

“Do you miss him?” Vinyaya asks her gently.

“Of course I do,” Holly snaps.

“Your decision isn’t concrete, you know,” Vinyaya suggests. 

“It’s clear that as long as his ex is as immature as she is, any relationship we could have would be a liability to my career.”

“Have you talked to Julius about this?”

Holly looks at the ceiling. “Kind of. All Paradizo said was that it wasn’t him who sent the email, and he’s having his tech guys check his system. We still don’t know  _ officially _ who did it but it had to be Minerva.”

“I meant about your relationship with Artemis.”

Holly barks out a laugh. “Yeah, because Julius really has the patience to hear me talk about boy trouble.”

Well, she’s not wrong. Root is always on edge during the season, meeting with sponsors and giving interviews and generally being far more sociable than he’d like. Watching him interview while they run through their warm up stretches, Holly finds it strange to believe he was ever a dancer, ever played the game and ran the circuit; he looks constantly annoyed by the fact people won’t just leave him alone and let him do his job. He shoos the interviewer away not even half an hour after they start, and then disappears into his office until it’s time for him to give his usual pre-performance pep talk, which largely consists of him blowing his cigar in their faces and gruffly telling them they aren’t half bad.

Heartwarming, but not exactly encouraging.

Holly also suspects that he’s partly so distracted because she heard through Foley (the aptly named sound and lighting guy who has a very strong love-hate relationship with Root) that he’s investigating Opal and her blatant drug use.

“You were offstage, but she fell over during practice yesterday,” Foley says gleefully. “I thought he was going to explode.”

“Root’s always about to explode,” Holly mutters, passing him a piece of carrot. “Hummus?”

So Holly just folds inwards and inwards, focusing entirely on getting through this season.

(Every morning, she checks the new reviews.)

-

Minerva has always striven to be respectful of other people’s personal space, so cracking open Opal’s drawers while she’s out at a physio appointment doesn’t feel…  _ good _ . 

But, Minerva has always striven for the truth, too, so while she may  _ carefully  _ take out Opal’s clothes, she still takes them out. 

The majority of it is quite uninteresting- lingerie, dance clothing, t-shirts. There’s the unexpected sex toy drawer (Minerva can’t decide if she’s upset or glad Opal’s never introduced them to her) but there’s a distinct absence of suspicious pills or powders. But she still has about forty minutes until Opal returns, so Minerva swallows her feelings of discomfort and moves from the drawers to the wardrobe. Dresses, coats, and-

A combination locked safe.

Minerva looks about the room, thinks for a second, and then enters in (with a grimace) Opal’s bust, waist and hip measurements. It swings open easily, and Minerva is unsurprised, and then, it occurs to her that Opal could be-  _ is- _ a narcissist. But she’ll deal with that unfortunate reality later, as she pulls out the contents of the safe. Rental agreements, contracts with the NYCB, a photobook filled with photos and clippings of Opal (Minerva doesn’t know what to think of this, except it’s not so much about not knowing and more about not wanting to), a jewellery box, and-

Several small, zip-sealed bags of white powder. 

Minerva remains on her knees, staring down at these little bags, for a long, painful minute. While of course testing would be required to conclusively confirm what exactly it is Opal is taking, there’s no mistaking this is a drug of some kind.

Her girlfriend is addicted to drugs and fraudulently sent an email that could have ruined someone’s career from her father’s computer. And probably a clinically diagnosed narcissist.

Minerva carefully puts everything back, locks the safe, checks nothing in the room is out of order, and then goes and makes herself a cup of tea. When Opal returns home, she slams the door shut, barely acknowledges Minerva is there, and goes straight to the bathroom.

“I’ve got to go,” Minerva says through the door, throat dry. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

No answer. Minerva resists the urge to throw the teapot, and carefully locks the door behind her.

-

Artemis is in the middle of a very intensive yoga session when Butler opens the door to the studio. Assuming he’s come in to do his own daily work out, Artemis only nods in acknowledgement before turning into  _ virabhadrasana III _ . He’s entirely drenched in sweat and frankly, it’s not his favourite feeling. But yoga has helped him feel more settled into his body, anchors him in the present, prevents him from thinking about-

“We need to talk about Holly,” Butler says, standing in front of him, and Artemis wobbles.

“Can it wait half an hour?” Artemis grunts, struggling to keep steady. He’s clenching his buttocks like it’s nobody’s business.

“Not especially,” Butler says steadily, and Artemis sighs, stepping out of the pose. “I think you’ll want to hear this sooner than later.”

“Fine,” Artemis says, picking up his towel and patting his face. “What is it?”

Butler tells him. Five minutes later, Artemis is calling Minerva.

She picks up on the third ring, sounding both confused and tired.

_ “Artemis?” _

“Minerva,” he says coolly in French. “Are you free to talk?”

_ “I- uh. Yes, I suppose so,” _ she says cautiously. 

“Excellent,” he says, struggling to keep a lock on his temper. “I wanted to talk to you.”

Minerva doesn’t say anything, waiting for him to talk, and this little silence somehow undoes him. Artemis has always prided himself on being able to think logically rather than have an outburst of anger, being able to communicate his emotions clearly and calmly. So what happens next is really quite embarrassing.

“I can not  _ believe _ how incredibly immaturely you have handled this entire situation,” he spits. “You endanger Holly’s career and mental health for no other reason than my relationship with her? Do you understand the  _ enormity _ of what Holly has had to do to get where she is? How hard she has worked? While you are perfectly allowed to have your own feelings about our break up- which, might I add, I did my best to make sure was respectful and kind- you have  _ no right _ to take them out on an innocent bystander! I’m in half a mind to contact your father and tell him of your incredibly foolish behaviour! Not to mention, your decision to leverage your family’s influence has pushed the love of my life to choose between me and her career, and quite understandably, she chose her career. Who can blame her, when presented with a reward for years of her hard work, or someone several years her junior with, and I hate to say this, but I can think of no other phrase, a jealous and mean-spirited ex-girlfriend hellbent on ruining her life out of spite? I hope you’re happy with yourself, Minerva! I hope you’re ecstatic that your incredibly ill-advised email to Julius Root was a success in ruining two very happy people’s lives!”

Artemis stops to take a breath, quite shocked at himself. In this two second window, Minerva bursts into tears.

“If you think tears are going to get you out of this-”

“ _ I wasn’t the one who sent that email,”  _ Minerva sniffs, and he hears her blow her nose.  _ “It was Opal.” _

All the anger dissipates from him. “Opal?”

Minerva blows her nose again.  _ “I’m positive. Papa’s IT people found no evidence of someone accessing his system from outside the house, and Opal not only has the means to send the email, but the motive as well. Not to mention, I found several sachets of powder in her house that can only be drugs, so I’d say she rather has the lack of reasoning ability currently as well to think about what she’s doing.” _

While all of this makes perfect sense, Artemis can’t help but think Opal, high or not, knew  _ exactly _ what she was doing. 

“Have you confronted her about this?” Artemis says instead, mind racing.

_ “Not yet,”  _ Minerva says.  _ “I only found out last week about the email, and this morning about the drugs. I don’t know what to do, Artemis,”  _ she adds desperately, and while Artemis may no longer hold any romantic feelings for Minerva, he still cares about her, in some small way. How could he not? She was his best friend for many years, and he had so many firsts with her, he can’t help but hold her as special in his heart, tucked away in a corner like forgotten childhood belongings.

“Have you spoken to your father, Minerva?” Artemis says. 

_ “No,”  _ Minerva says.  _ “I don’t actually have  _ proof _ it was Opal who sent the email, and while her likely being a drug addict isn’t going to send him over the moon, it has nothing to do with him.” _

Well, she’s not wrong.

“Have you checked your CCTV feeds?” Artemis asks instead. “The camera at the end of your garden should include a view of your father’s study window.”

A beat, and then Minerva laughs.  _ “Why am I unsurprised you can remember such a ridiculous detail?”  _ she says a little fondly.

“We used to have incredibly long makeout sessions in that garden,” Artemis reminds her. “As if I wouldn’t be aware of every camera’s location and what it was capturing.”

_ “Of course,”  _ Minerva says, and then asks, _ “Holly broke up with you?”  _

“Yes,” Artemis says.

_ “Opal isn’t a very nice person, is she?”  _ Minerva says quietly.

“I think,” Artemis says carefully, “You see what you want to see in a person. And there’s no shame in that. But caring for someone means you have to think about what they need, rather than what they want.”

_ “Yes,”  _ Minerva says, and takes a shaky breath.  _ “Yes, you’re right.” _

“Go check the surveillance footage,” Artemis says. “Call me with whatever you find, and we’ll go from there.”

_ “Okay. You’ll hear from me within the hour.”  _ Minerva pauses.  _ “I’m sorry for all the trouble she’s caused you, Artemis.” _

“You don’t need to apologise for her behavior,” Artemis says roughly. “And especially not to me.”

_ “You weren’t exaggerating when you called her the love of your life, then?” _

“Since when do I exaggerate?” Artemis says smartly, and Minerva laughs, before disconnecting the call.

Artemis stares at his phone, before turning to his computer. He has research to do, and several plans to commence, and only an hour before Minerva calls him back. Between the flicker of hope and the possibility of sweet vindication on the horizon, he feels rather invigorated. It’s like he’s ten once more, planning to take down those old Russian mobsters, a feeling he missed. 

The rush of the heist, he supposes. Though of course, this situation is rather more mundane, and substantially lacking in guns.

-

Opal comes home from practice with the twins the next day to find Minerva waiting for her in her apartment, wearing a bizarrely professional looking pant suit nand a tired expression that makes the prematurely forming lines on either side of her mouth even more prominent than usual.

Opal is antsy, and hot, and  _ sorely _ needs to get into her safe, and was quite looking forward to having a long bath on her one day off of the week and then maybe making use of one of her more recently purchased toys. So it takes a lot to bring some semblance of a smile to her face.

“I wasn’t expecting you today,” Opal says lightly, kicking off her shoes and putting her bag down. 

“I told you I was coming over today,” Minerva says. “Yesterday, remember?”

“I’m in the middle of a season,” Opal reminds her, smile becoming less a smile and more a display of teeth. “You know I don’t have a lot of free time.”

“I know,” Minerva says, with that tone she thinks is placating but is actually whiney. God, Opal hates her stupid  _ perfect girlfriend _ tone. 

“Well,” Opal says with a laugh, “I’m not sure what you’re here for.”

“Opal,” Minerva says. “I know you sent the email.”

“What email?” Opal says, frowning, taking a bottle of mineral water from the fridge. She doesn’t betray the gears ticking behind her solid gaze. There’s no cameras in Paradizo’s study, the computer was already logged in, no-one saw her come and go. Minerva has no  _ proof _ .

“The email to Julius Root about firing Holly Short. The email you sent from my father’s computer.”

“Minerva,” Opal says, with a little laugh. “I’m sorry, I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I have CCTV footage of you entering my father’s room and using his laptop at the same time the email was sent to Mr. Root,” Minerva tells her. 

Opal doesn’t say anything. She has another drink from the bottle, buying herself a few seconds. She puts the cap back on the bottle, and decides that a defensive approach isn’t going to benefit her.

“Why are you telling me this?” Opal says tonelessly, watching how Minerva looks pathetic and uncomfortable. She can still keep the upper hand, if she plays this  _ just _ right.

“I found the drugs, Opal,” Minerva says. “I just want to help you. You’re not yourself-”

Perhaps it's exhaustion, perhaps it’s the unexpected drop in, perhaps it’s Minerva’s growing a back bone, but the idea of Minerva, prim, stupid little Minerva, digging through her things and somehow opening her safe sends Opal off the deep end.

“You went through my things?” Opal snaps, and Minerva flinches. “You went through my fucking things? And now you come here, attempting to blackmail me, me,  _ Opal Koboi _ , America’s best ballet dancer, into- what, exactly?”

“I didn’t- I just- Artemis and I thought-”

“Oh, of  _ course _ Artemis Fowl is poking his long nose into everything,” Opal sneers. “Why am I not surprised you somehow involved him in this? Didn’t him shacking up with Holly fucking Short tell you, Minerva? He’s not  _ interested _ in fucking you anymore! He’s moved onto far greener pastures!”

Minerva is staring at her, pale except for two spots of color high up on her cheeks. 

“To be honest,” Opal says, “I can’t blame him. You’re as limp and uninteresting in bed as you are in real life. Honestly, Minerva, you’re lucky I even put up with you,” she adds, turning her tone back into sweet, comforting. “What were you thinking, going through my possessions? You know I could take you to court for that? And then trying to clumsily blackmail me?” Opal tsks, turning back to the fridge to put her bottle back. “Minerva, I think you’re a bit out of your element, here.”

When she turns back, she expects Minerva to be crying, and ready to burst into apology. Instead, Minerva is standing and buttoning her coat.

“I actually came here today to try and help you,” Minerva says, voice trembling with something Opal realises is actually  _ anger _ . She pulls out her phone, which Opal can see from here is recording. “It’s obvious you’re suffering from narcissism and drug addiction. You need a therapist and support. But you’re right, of course, Opal. I  _ am _ out of my element. I may have several doctorates in assorted fields, be invited to lecture regularly at the NYU and run one of New York’s most prominent consulting firms, but despite all my experience and expertise, I can not believe I allowed you to manipulate, gaslight and use me for so long. I’ll have your things sent back to you immediately, and you can expect that Mr. Root will be in contact with you about your unprofessional behavior shortly.”

Minerva puts her phone away, pulls on her trench coat. Opal watches her, unable to form a single thought from sheer surprise.

“Good luck, Ms. Koboi,” Minerva says. “I think you’re rather going to need it over the next few days.”

And then, Minerva slams the door shut behind her.

_ Fuck. _

-

There’s one week left in the season when suddenly, Opal disappears from the face of the earth. Holly turns up to practice to find No.1 patiently coaching Opal’s delighted understudy, Ella, on the role of the Red Queen. Assuming Opal’s had an injury (not uncommon at this point in the season) she doesn’t think too much of it until she sees Juliet, who is all but vibrating with glee.

“Opal’s under investigation,” Juliet says under her breath, and Holly blinks.

“For what?” Holly says. 

“Not sure yet,” Juliet says. “I’m willing to bet drug abuse. Apparently no-one can find her.”

No.1 comes over to them, so Holly doesn’t get any answers until after practice, when Root appears in the doorway to the studio and beckons for her to follow him.

He looks exhausted, so Holly decides not to ask any questions; he leads her to his office, where, of all people, Minerva and an older man who Holly recognises as Gaspard Paradizo sit in front of Root’s desk.

“Holly,” Minerva says with a cool politeness, inclining her head. Gaspard (surprisingly, considering that email) looks far more warmly at her, shaking her hand as Root settles behind his desk. 

“As you’ve probably heard, Opal’s under investigation,” Root says, gesturing for her to take the third seat- an old stool in the corner. 

“I’ve heard some rumors,” Holly says, bemused. “I don’t know if I’ll be much help. Opal and I aren’t exactly  _ pals _ , Commander.”

“I’ve not called you in for assistance, Short,” Root barks. His incensed tone at the nickname lends some comforting similarity to the entire situation. “I thought you deserved to know what’s going on because she’s under investigation for unprofessional conduct. Some of which involves  _ you. _ ”

“Uh,” Holly says, glancing at the two Paradizo’s. “Me?”

“I’m sure Julius has informed you about the email sent supposedly from myself,” Gaspard says. 

“Yes,” Holly says.

“It wasn’t me who sent it,” Gaspard explains. “At first, I thought perhaps Minerva had sent it- with her prior involvement with Artemis Fowl, who you’re seeing, of course-”

“Not anymore,” Holly says quickly, ignoring Root’s raised brow. Minerva is looking at some point on the ceiling, clearly as uncomfortable as Holly. 

“Ah. Well,” Gaspard continues, “I thought- unfairly- my daughter was poorly handling Artemis’s new relationship, and lashed out. Except it wasn’t her, either.”

“Opal sent it,” Root says crisply. 

Holly blinks again. 

“We have CCTV footage of her accessing my father’s computer at the same time the email was sent from his account,” Minerva says quietly. “I also found drugs in her possession.”

“Which has us in a tricky situation,” Root says. “She could potentially plead that she sent the email while under the influence.”

The way Root looks at Holly, she knows he’s thinking the same thing; that under the influence or not, Opal knew exactly what she was doing.

“However,” Root continues, “The guilty don’t run. And considering no-one can find her, the whole thing is a moot point. We’ve sent her a notice of termination for her misconduct,” he concludes, with an air of great satisfaction.

“We wanted to come clear the air in person,” Gaspard says to Holly. “You have always been one of my favourite performers at the ballet here, and I want to assure you as one of the major donors, you have my support.”

Holly breathes out, and it’s like every muscle in her body relaxes a little.

“I also wanted to apologise,” Minerva says stiffly. “My and Opal’s behaviour towards you was abhorrent. I’m very sorry for the trouble she caused you.”

“Thanks,” Holly says a little faintly.

“Well,” Root says, staring longingly at the cigar sitting on his desk. “Now that that’s all cleared up, if you’ll excuse me…”

The Paradizo’s leave, and Root gestures for Holly to remain.

“You okay, Short?” he asks, lighting the cigar.

“A little surprised,” she admits. “Glad to know Opal’s finally getting kicked out. Relieved I’m not going to be let go.”

Root grunts in agreement. “Me too, kid. You’re one of the good ones.”

That’s outrageously sentimental for Root, so she just nods.

“S’pose you know Juliet’s leaving the corps after this season?” he continues.

“Yeah.”

“Mm. You better not have any similar stupid ideas after all this ruckus,” Root warns her, puffing on her cigar. “You’re the best damn dancer we have, and with Opal gone, you’re guaranteed to get principal for the next four or five seasons.”

Holly stares at him. 

“Not that you heard that from me,” Root says thoughtfully. 

“Of course not,” Holly murmurs.

“Get out of here, Short,” Root says. “Don’t you have a show tonight to practice for?”

Feeling entirely like she’s been transported to another planet, she walks out the door, half expecting the building to have disappeared and been replaced with the arid deserts of Mars. The discombobulation continues; Minerva is waiting for her.The younger woman looks extremely uncomfortable as she meets Holly’s eyes.

“I thought you ought to know,” Minerva says hesitantly. “Artemis was, for all intents and purposes, the one who found the footage of her accessing my father’s computer. Without him, Opal would likely still be here.”

“Oh,” Holly says faintly. 

Minerva nods, and then turns away. And then turns back. “He cares for you greatly,” she says. “I implore you to give him another chance.”

And then she leaves.

Jesus fucking  _ Christ. _

-

The news spreads like wildfire through the NYBC, because of course it does. Juliet, who appreciates good drama like a fine wine, relishes in it. Relishes in the fact she never has to look at Opal’s torrid little face again, and relishes in the fact that her friend’s career is once again safe.

The final week of the season passes quickly; everyone is in high spirits. The absence of Opal creates a significantly more relaxed and cheerful environment, after all, and they all have a month of recovery to look forward to, not to mention, dietary freedom. There’s also the promise of the end-of-season celebratory ball where sponsors essentially pay for them to drink and eat a lot. 

Juliet is in  _ especially _ high seasons. Root has offered her a year long contract to teach ballet to beginners starting in two months, which she’s incredibly excited about. It’s so wonderful to have a future where she won’t be aching and can have a slice of pizza without feeling like she’s bringing dishonor to her entire family line.

She knows Artemis has been invited as thanks by Root to the ball, and now that the situation has been laid bare, and that Holly  _ clearly _ isn’t over Artemis, there’s a good chance her two friends are finally going to get back together.

The morning of the ball, the day after the season’s final performance ends with thunderous applause, Juliet sees the review in her emails.

_ Impossible Things: The NYBC’s Critically Acclaimed  _ Alice in Wonderland _ , _ it’s titled, by A. Fowl.

She reads it. She grins. She wipes off the grin and comes into Holly’s room, where Holly applying mascara.

“You’re wearing the green dress with the long leg slit, right?” Juliet says severely, hands on her hips.

“Yeah, yeah,” Holly mutters, flapping her hand at her. “And the black heels, don’t worry.”

“Good,” Juliet says. “You need to look your best tonight.”

“And why is that?” Holly says, not looking away from her mirror.

“It’s your first ball as a principal,” Juliet says, barely managing to contain herself. “Also, one of the final reviews came out today. I just sent you it, I think you’ll rather like it.”

“I’ll read it once I’m done,” Holly says absently. “Who’s it by?”

“Artemis,” Juliet says gleefully, and Holly pokes herself in the eye with her mascara brush.

-

Holly isn’t one for dramatics. So this entire situation has her by the breastbone, a deep seated anxiety as she opens the review. It’s about as long as the first review, the one that started this all those weeks ago, but infinitely more kind. 

_ Ballet, at its best, should transcend the simple act of movement set to music,  _ he begins _. It should invoke a story without words; it should raise the heart with the gentlest  _ battement développé.  _ Ballet at its worst is not unlike a daytime television soap; it does a lot and tells little, relying on exorbitant flourishes when less is often more. So when I heard that the NYBC’s newest choreographer was undertaking  _ Alice in Wonderland _ , a modern, non-traditional ballet, my interest was piqued. Would this show bedazzle me, or disappoint me? _

_ Before I answer that question, dear reader, you may be asking yourself- this is all well and good, but what use is this review, published a day after the season’s final performance? Unfortunately, I must inform you; this review is not meant for the audience, but the dancer; she of beguiling eyes and elegant frame, she of short temper and devastating wit. This review is- could only ever be- for her. _

_ For you. _

She can’t read the rest of it. She has to close it, put her phone down. She can’t figure out whether she wants to cry, or laugh. She does a little of both as she pulls on the dress, dabbing her eyes to prevent the mascara from running, slips into her shoes.

“Did you read it?” 

Holly looks away from applying her lipstick (a deep red) to see Juliet standing in the doorway.

“I read the first paragraph,” she says.

“Why didn’t you finish it?”

“Because I did what I thought was the right thing, leaving him,” Holly says reluctantly, wiping away a tiny smudge on her teeth. “And I don’t need a love letter to know it’s the right thing to ask him to take me back.”

“Oh, that makes things  _ much _ easier,” Juliet beams. 

“What do you mean?”

“He’s attending the ball tonight,” she informs Holly cheerfully; Holly stares at her and then Juliet’s phone dings. “Come on, that’s our Uber.”

“He’s- Artemis is going to-”

“Oh, calm down, Holly,” Juliet says sternly, ushering her out the door and down the stairs. Holly barely has the time to grab her clutch; Juliet is all but shoving her. “You look fantastic, he clearly wants you, you clearly want him, what’s the problem?”

“Evening, ladies,” the driver says cheerfully. “Off to The Foundry, was it?”

“Yep,” Juliet says cheerfully. 

“Party, or?”

“My friend’s going to ask the love of her life to take her back,” Juliet says, and Holly huffs.

“Uh,” the driver says. “Well I hope it goes well.”

“I’m going to throttle you, Juliet,” Holly mutters.

“Cheer up,” Juliet says. “It’s an open bar, they’ve got a live swing band, Opal won’t be there. It’s the perfect night to beg someone to forgive you for your mistakes.”

Holly punches her in the arm. Juliet only yells a little.

“Right,” Holly says, exhales forcibly. “Right. Let’s do this.”

“That’s the spirit,” the driver says encouragingly.

-

There’s no Butler to drop him off; Artemis has made this very last minute trip alone. He spends the entire plane ride over marinating in his own anxieties and consumes several complimentary flutes of champagne. The alcohol seems to have been the right thing to do, though, because when he gets into his hotel room he falls asleep and rises the next day in the late afternoon feeling very ready to take on the world and try to win Holly back.

He spends the afternoon tweezing his brows and clipping his stubble down to that perfect three day length, having a relaxing shower, going through his five step skin care regime. Next, he spends half an hour on his hair, stops for a quick bite to eat, and then carefully gets dressed. A thick brown overcoat with a deep blue suit and matching brown shoes, with a crisp white shirt and a green pocket square dashed with blue stripes.

And then- so dedicated to maintaining this impeccable, crinkle free look- Artemis takes the subway, to avoid crotch whiskers. Artemis is determined to look the best anyone attempting to win someone back has ever looked.

It’s a very trying hour, mainly because he’s almost certain the person standing next to him is about to vomit at any given moment and a little because if Holly doesn’t take him back he might very well fly back to Ireland and never leave the house again. Luckily, he arrives unscathed, and the location of the event, the Foundry, is warm and clean and a very well trained waiter takes his overcoat. The room is full, but he sees no one he’s friendly with, and settles for accepting a martini from a passing waitperson and making his way to the indoor balcony, which looks over the floor and provides him with 1) a fine acoustic location from which to listen to the not entirely awful big band and 2) an  _ excellent _ location to watch new arrivals.

Juliet has already informed him they’re ten minutes away, but it feels like two; Holly walks through the door and as the waiter takes her coat, every well planned word falls from his mind like a cup overflowing. Juliet steps in next to her and is overtly scanning the room for him. Artemis hastily looks away, pretending to be engaged in the view out through the main wall length windows. He can feel Juliet’s gaze on him like a homing missile. It’s so intense it actually raises the hair on the back of his neck.

Alright, Artemis.  _ The plan. Stick to the plan. _ The plan of course is to play it very cool and casually bump into Holly and charmingly remind her now that Opal has been forcibly removed from the premises and her career is no longer in jeopardy, that they made an excellent couple with fabulous physical and emotional chemistry, and that if she were to be so inclined, would she allow him back into her life?

“Nice view,” Holly says behind him, and he jumps a good foot off the ground and splashes his martini all over the window.

Artemis closes his eyes for a very brief moment and then clears his throat, turning to Holly. Up close, she’s a goddess. A goddess he just made an absolute buffoon of himself in front of. He wishes she was an actual goddess because maybe she’d smite him then and there and save him the embarrassment. 

Holly, who is as direct and no-nonsense as she ever was, does the next best thing; she kisses him. 

Artemis’s shock is quickly overrun by enthusiastic relief and he’s kissing her back and  _ god she smells so good _ , it’s like she never left-

A piercing wolf whistle cuts across the room and they break apart in self conscious embarrassment to find Juliet lasciviously winking at them while Nathan Trouble cackles.

“Shall we take a walk?” Holly says, a blush darkening her skin further, and Artemis (feeling quite hot under the collar) gratefully obliges.

Outside, it’s blessedly cool and there are little fairy lights strung up everywhere, lovely and gentle. They cross to the balcony, which stares across the Manhattan River. 

Artemis opens his mouth but Holly beats him to it.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I thought I had to make a decision, and I don’t regret it. But I didn’t have all the facts, and I was wondering- hoping, actually- that you’d want to give it another go?”

Artemis’s heart pounds in his chest. He reaches across to where her hand rests on the railing and takes it.

“I’d love to,” he says. 

She looks incredibly relieved. “You aren’t angry?”

“I was,” he says. “Mainly at myself. I thought I’d done something wrong.”

“Artemis Fowl, wrong?” she teases. “Perish the thought.”

“Yes, that should have been my first clue,” Artemis says. “A mathematical outlier if ever there was one.” He leans in for another kiss. She indulges him; when they break apart, he’s wearing an ear to ear grin.

“So, what next?” Holly says breathlessly. 

“I’m here for as long as you’ll have me,” Artemis tells her sincerely. 

“You’ll be here an awful while,” she tells him. “Are you sure you like New York quite that much?”

“I like  _ you _ ,” Artemis replies, as the sun begins to set behind the horizon. “The geography is immaterial.”

“God, you’re sappy,” Holly mutters, and he reaches up to cup her cheek.

“Only for you,” he says. “Only ever for you.”

FIN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you guys so much for the love and the wonderful comments, and most importantly, your patience!!!! i have no real reason for how late this was besides just. Being Out of writing energy. I was expecting a more polished chapter but sometimes you just gotta fucking write it and post it but also this whole thing is so ridiculously romcom I think it's allowed to be a little indulgent and silly. I hope you enjoyed!!!!!!!!

**Author's Note:**

> BALLET TERMS (taken from https://ballethub.com/ballet-terms-dictionary/)
> 
> Allégro - In ballet, allégro is a term applied to bright, fast or brisk steps and movement. All steps where the dancer jumps are considered allégro, such as sautés, jetés, cabrioles, assemblés, and so on.
> 
> Assemblé - An assemblé in classical ballet has many different variations, but the basics are always the same: two legs joining together in the air. In a basic form, an assemblé is when one foot slides along the floor before brushing into the air. As the foot goes into the air, the dancer then jumps.
> 
> Battu - A classical ballet term that means “beaten.” Any step in classical ballet that is made more technically difficult by adding a beating of the legs in the middle of the jump or step is considered battu. (Artemis likes a good ballet pun.)
> 
> Ballon - means “to bounce,” and in ballet refers to a dancer showing lightness and ease in jumps. Ballon describes the quality of jump, not the height.
> 
> Fifth position en bas -En bas is a classical ballet term that means “low.” This term is used by teachers and choreographers to indicate a low position of the arms. For example, “fifth position en bas” would be low fifth position arms.
> 
> Principal- The leading dancer. (A performance would have a female and male principal.)
> 
> Entrechat cinq - Cinq is a classical ballet term simply meaning “five.” Cinq is a direct translation and means nothing more than the number five. For example, an entrechat cinq describes a jump that the legs together beat 5 times.
> 
> Coupé - describes a step where one foot cuts the other foot away, taking its place. Its usually done as an in-between step for a larger step.
> 
> Corps- the company/cast of dancers.
> 
> Fish dive- a classical ballet term describing a step where the ballerina is in a retiré position and held low to the ground by a male dancer.
> 
> Danseur- Male dancer.
> 
> saut de chats - a type of jump.
> 
> port de bras - meaning “movement of the arms.” It describes how dancers move their arms from one position to another.
> 
> balletomane- Ballet fan.
> 
> croix- a classical ballet term meaning “in the shape of a cross.” This term is usually used in ballet class and lets a dancer know the step should be done to the front, side and then back.
> 
> croisé- a croisé position is when the legs appear crossed from the audience.
> 
> grand battement - Its the idea that the working leg quickly gets to the top of the position as opposed to slowly. A quicker grand battement jeté leads to a better grand allegro.
> 
> -
> 
> All the restaurants and bakeries and hotels and buses and everything else are real places in NY! But I do not live in NY or have ever been there, so forgive any mistakes etc. While of course the NYCB is a real thing, as are the Corps (like a training academy, from my understanding) the dancing studio and there being a board is creative license. For reference, again from my research, Misty Copeland was the first black female principal to perform in the NYCB in 2015 (yikes!)
> 
> ANYWAY IM BACK BABEY I planned this fic out about a week after I finished slowly slowly, and sat on it for several months, rewrote the outline, and then pumped out this first chapter in four days!!!!! im hoping to have this done by end of the year- theres only two more chapters to go, and they shouuuld be roughly the same length, give or take a few pages.
> 
> IMPORTANT - I am white, so while racism is referred to in this story, this is why it isnt a part of Holly's narrative and won't play a large role in informing her behaviour or the plot beyond her being the first black dancer. I do not have the personal experience with it, and I'm not going to try and write it. I'm also not American, so while I consider myself well educated about the racism issues there, I dont have personal experience with it again. So thats my personal disclaimer. This story is all about the romance babey!!!!! im just here for some Laughs!!!! thanks for reading!


End file.
